The Waker's Light
by deplam
Summary: Enjolras and Eponine use each other as an escape from their realities. "He hesitantly looked over to her. 'Did I hurt you too much?" WARNINGS. Rated MA.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **

This story will explore the darker side of Enjolras. Liken to a harsh volcano with "outbursts of soul," he is "a charming young man who was capable of being terrible" and "severe in his pleasures." I will be focusing on his severity and terror, as well as his character flaw of being too narrow in his focus on his ideals. This Enjolras will also engage in explicit sexual situations and violence. If you are looking for innocent, sweet Enjolras, this story is not for you.

And as for Eponine—I'm a sucker for Eponine/Enjolras, but because Eponine is already in love with Marius, I want to illustrate a psychological reason for why Eponine would even turn to Enjolras (and vice versa). I am interested in character studies, and while Eponine and Enjolras will have canon qualities, this story will deal mostly with investigating the potential attributes they both try to hide...

Oh, and there will be a lot of sex. Please be aware of the warnings.

Happy reading! :)

**WARNINGS: **dubious sexual consent/non-consent, explicit sexual situations, kink, D/s (dominant men), violence, & profanity. In other words, there will be _a lot_ of explicit, vulgar sex. If _any_ of this bothers you, please do not read this story.

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Her dark hair matted in sweat and dirt unraveled in tresses against her face as her body was thrown against the desk with an unforgiving force. Her voice came out in a sharp cry as the edge of the desk struck her lower spine, and she grabbed hold of the furniture to keep from falling. Through the volume of her hair, she could see his form approaching fast, and by instinct, she grabbed an item from the desk—any item she could reach—and emphatically threw it in his direction. She heard the glass votive holder shatter into pieces, but she didn't stay long enough to check if it fragmented against his head or against the wall behind him.

She was already out the bedroom door and running.

Enjolras had ducked and avoided the exploding glass. He watched her silhouette race down the hall and towards the stairway. He released a long exhale. It wouldn't take long for him to catch her. With every five steps she took, he could gain her in two. Besides, he loved the chase.

With a slanted smile, he loosened his cravat and followed her out the door in long, steady strides.

Eponine's breath escaped her in uneven wheezes as she ran down the staircase that felt longer than she remembered. All that raced through her mind was, "get out, get out, get out!" Her foot slipped between two steps and her body lunged forward in a sloppy mess. She grabbed the railing just in time to catch herself before her face hit the ground. As she sprinted and regained her equilibrium, she could hear the heavy thud of his steps down the stairs close behind her.

"Faster, Eponine, faster!" she told herself. She clasped the doorknob.

Just as she yanked on the knob, Enjolras strong palm slammed against the heavy door and forced it back shut with a resounding click. She could feel his warm breath dominating above her and could practically feel his threatening glare as she was trapped between the door and his powerful frame. With his free hand, he reached forward and latched the door, making a point to press his hip against her lower back in the process. She was utterly still. Both of his palms were planted against the door on each side of her, completely entrapping her.

"Turn around." He said in a low voice.

He observed the rise and fall of her chest with every serrated breath. Inch by inch, she gradually turned to face him. She let out an involuntary whimper as she stared into his steel eyes hooded under his furrowed brow. The green vein that she loved to kiss down his neck was now pulsing in rage.

At her low height, she saw an opportunity to escape—The sudden jerk to her right and dip under his arm was a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

He let out scornful chuckle, let her take a couple steps, and easily captured his arms around her waist. But the little devil still wouldn't give up. She kicked her feet off against the wall, sending him falling back and losing his grip.

The second his arms released her, she made another dash to the door. But he grabbed hold of her long tresses of hair and violently yanked her backward before propelling her head-first against the wall. Enjolras watched her body slump to the ground at his feet.

With a painful groan, she slowly rolled to her side, eyes tightly closed, and exposed a bloody gash that split the skin lining the right corner of her scalp.

A few seconds passed as he assessed the situation, staring at her curled form. Withdrawing a weighted sigh, he scooped her from the floor and carried her fragile body back up the stairs and into his room. After kicking his door shut with the heel of his foot, he tossed her body on his bed and lit another candle. She was slowly regaining focus—eyes fluttering, quiet murmurs. Enjolras crouched at the bedside, ensuring that he was the first thing she saw.

Her eyes opened slowly only to find Enjolras peering intently within inches of her face. With a gasp, she tried to jerk away, but the throbbing in her head slowed her into a disoriented haze. He caught her by the hands.

"Please," she whispered. Her eyes half-lidded. "Please just stop."

Enjolras scoffed with a wry smile. "Tell me this is not what you want."

"I don't—"

He kissed her lightly. In the moonlight, they could pretend they were gentle lovers. His angelic face looked almost peaceful fanned out in the quietude of night. Her suppressed cries came out in puffed sighs, which he soothed with kisses along her cheek. He knew she would eventually calm down once he gained complete control and once she remembered how good he could make her feel. And the feeling was reciprocated. She made him feel good, too. She was his escape from the revolution, from their miserable realities—the few precious hours during which he felt in control and powerful, and she could let go and forget her struggle to survive.

The revolution was dawning, and he welcomed it with guns and speeches and flags. He was ready. But being uncertain of the outcome, wondering how many dead bodies as collateral will he carry as reminders of his own failures, assuming he even survives—it all just becomes too much.

Eponine carefully sat up, and he pulled her close to his chest and tenderly sucked along the curve of her neck. His fingers felt warm as he pushed her hair back, then slid the thin sleeves of her dress off her shoulders, first the right and then the left. With the swell of her breasts exposed in the night, a small shame built in the pit of her stomach that she wanted to edge apart. But despite her shame and her pleading desire to escape, the moment she would feel his tongue carefully open her mouth, she just wanted to die. She wanted to completely lose herself in him. It felt so easy to die.

She began frantically tugging on his shirt, pulling at the buttons until they came undone. He assisted by tearing it off his back, releasing a guttural moan when she touched her soft lips to his bare chest and pressed her hand against his hard manhood desperate for release. He grabbed her wrists and threw her flat on his bed.

With the slow crawl over her body, he pushed the skirt of her dress over her legs and tore her undergarment at the seams. He roughly spread her thighs apart, and there, she felt the cool air hit her skin only briefly before his touch grazed her. His cock throbbed painfully in his pants as he stared at her spread open beneath him and only for him.

Loosening his pants, he studied the angles on her body, the hip bones protruding as a reminder of her starvation. The candle on a nearby desk flickered angled light on her soft face, offering fragments of her aroused expressions.

"Open your eyes." He steadied her chin. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you. I want you in me." In pure lust, she eyed his manhood as he kicked off his pants. She remembered how it felt all those times when he stretched her open and made her scream for more. "I need you in me."

The bed creaked and dipped under his weight. He pushed away her two fingers that were eagerly caressing her clit and slipped his own two fingers inside her warmth. Her wet, slippery juices coated his fingers filling her up, shoving deep inside of her, and beckoning moans that echoed the walls of his dark room. He added a third finger and flicked her clit with his thumb, which forced a deep moan and her back to arc against the rickety bed.

She bit her hand to keep from crying out, on the verge of begging for release.

He stared in amazement at her writhing body, her hair splayed in a mess against his pillow that now smelled like her. He teasingly brushed the head of his manhood against her wet sex, just circling the outer edge and watching her beg with her eyes.

"Never run from me again, do you hear me?"

She responded by bucking her hips, trying to encourage him into her.

Unable to wait any longer, in one forceful thrust, he impaled her with his full length. They both cried out in uncontrollable moans, reaping the reward of their torturous dance. Eponine could already feel the orgasm like a knot in her waiting to be undone. It had been growing inside of her since earlier that day when she knew Enjolras had spotted her flirting with Marius. She already knew a rage was building inside of him all day, whether he admitted it or not, and couldn't wait to feel his force, feel controlled by his stormy temper.

"Think you could escape me, you slag?" He whispered, slowing his thrusts into painful pleasure. "You want to fuck all around Paris, is that it?"

"No!" She pleaded, just at the edge of release. "I only want you. Don't stop."

"Don't lie to me!" He hissed, lifting his heavy palm and striking her across the face. She shrieked from its force.

"No, I'm…" She cried. "I'm sorry, I…I won't do it again. I'm sorry…"

Enjolras pinched at her nipples before slowly pressing his lips against her breast. The moment his tongue began circling her nipples now hard as small pebbles, he slipped his left hand against her throat and began to squeeze. Not squeezing with all of his strength, but just enough to hear her breathing begin to shallow and her eyes water and her face brighten like dawn. Watching the rose-colored hue come to her naturally pale face made him remember the first time she kissed him—the coy smile she gave, the innocent blush of wondering how he would respond. She was beautiful.

And she was beautiful under the weight of his hand. He continued penetrating deep inside of her, feeling her tight walls massage his manhood and her wet juices drip down her inner thighs. Upon finally releasing his grip on her throat, she inhaled slowly and deeply and stared dreamily at the ceiling, feeling a euphoric pleasure tingle throughout her entire body in an orgasmic thrall.

"Don't ever tell me you don't want this." He warned in her ear, reaching down to rub his finger over her clit. "This belongs to me. No one can fuck you like I can. Not even your precious Marius."

"Don't stop…"

"Who do you belong to?"

"You."

"Say my name."

"Enjolras. I belong to Enjolras. You own me." She let out a shrill shriek when he grabbed her forcefully by the hips and began bucking into her. "Do as you want. I'm yours…"

He threw his mouth onto hers, swallowing the painful cries escaping the O of her mouth. Like a beast, he gripped her hips with enough force to know that he would leave purplish bruises on her skin for days. He hammered into her with rapid gunfire speed. She could feel him throbbing within her, and the thought of his hot cum filling her womb was enough to throw her into another violent orgasm. With one final, deep penetration, he shot his sticky load into her and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

In the pitiful night where the citizens of Paris cannot hide their sins and shame, Enjolras and Eponine both knew they also could never escape their lives. No matter how much pain and control he could assert over her, there was still a revolution that made him feel helpless. And no matter how desperately Eponine begged for his abuse, he could never truly make her feel as destitute and lonely as she felt wandering through life as Marius's futureless shadow. She never admitted aloud to Enjolras that she only returned for these nightly escapades because he is the only person who made it feel good to hate herself. And he never forced her to say it, just as she never forced him to say, "I'm going to die in this revolution." They both knew what the other gained from these nights without having to say the words.

Enjolras rolled off of her body, slowly pulling out of her with a newfound delicacy. Sticky with sweat in a coat of sheen, they caught their breaths, while the stars paled in the night outside. They rarely spoke much in the aftermaths of their events. Every encounter always felt more intense and new. Sometimes they would quietly replay the events in their minds, while other times they just wanted to pretend like it never happened at all.

For Eponine, she more frequently replayed the events leading up to their intercourse and then silently cried when recalling the actual moments of physical intimacy. There were times when she couldn't keep her sobs quiet, which would prompt Enjolras to throw on his clothing and sloppily stride out the door mumbling something about going for a walk. It became an unspoken rule that whenever he would say "I'm going for a walk," he would stay out for the entire night and return long after the sun rose. By then, Eponine would be gone.

This time, there was no crying, at least none that could be heard.

Enjolras rarely replayed the events in his head, but would simply stare at the discoloration in his ceiling and wouldn't say a word.

This time, he hesitantly looked over to her. "Did I hurt you too much?" His voice was rasp and dry.

A pause. Then barely a shake of the head.

Enjolras never once asked Eponine to leave when they were done or made awkward suggestions about how someone might be wondering where she is, but she always made sure never to overstay her welcome. The longest she laid in his bed was an hour, and she was awake the entire time just staring at the ceiling until she heard his even breaths guide him into slumber and she decided it was time to go.

Feeling his eyes still on her, she slightly turned her head away which hastened Enjolras to turn his gaze back at the ceiling. She would stay another fifteen minutes before wordlessly slipping away into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Thank you for reading! As a reminder, this contains explicit sexual situations.

**WARNINGS: **dubious sexual consent/non-consent, explicit sexual situations, kink, D/s (dominant men), violence, & profanity. In other words, there will be _a lot_ of explicit, vulgar acts of sex. If _any_ of this bothers you, please do not read this story.

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

When does love become obsession?

Eponine wondered if she could even tell the two apart anymore. She watched Marius on the platform passing out pamphlets to the people below, barking about a "new day" and something about "conspiracy of equals." She may not have understood what Marius was saying, but she earnestly studied every facial move, every fluid turn of his body as if her future depended on it.

She could almost predict his every move: she knew that when he would squint his eyes, he would soon use his left sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow discreetly; he would step forward with his right foot first, then swing his left hand in the air for emphasis on important words; he had a tendency to lose enunciation at the tail end of words during the last quarter of the rally…

She could watch this man all day. And she usually did. So when did her love for him become obsession? When did her love sour into a desperate compulsion, an anxious need to follow him on his daily errands? She couldn't say. All she knew was that she had a tormented need to be in his presence.

"—the state of France currently functions under gradations of social rank!" Enjolras's voice boomed alongside Marius's.

She snapped out of her reverie.

While the two men raged on about the people's inherent rights, Eponine weaved her way through the crowd in the direction of Le Café Musain. She knew the rally was almost over and that the young revolutionaries would reconvene at the café for any updates and future plans. Arriving there before Marius would arrive had made her feel only slightly less obsessed; she could at least try to convince herself that they just happened to be at the same place at the same time.

She waited in the corner of the café, holding a large book in front of her face as if she could read it. Despite no one protesting the presence of a woman in the café's front room, she often tried to hide her face out of habit, at least until the students arrived.

The men's chatter could be heard in the distance.

One by one they poured in. She recognized Joly's deep laughter first when the door opened, and the friends made their way to the back. Unnoticed by bystanders, she glided into the rush of bodies heading towards the backroom.

Les Amis de l'ABC were already accustomed to her presence and made no outcry about having her there. She never caused problems, simply sat in the corner with a random book balanced on her lap and stared at Marius. Enjolras originally thought she might prove to be a distraction for Marius until Combeferre suggested the idea that the discussions she overheard among the men might be passed from her lips to her friends on the streets. Did Combeferre honestly believe that? No, but he felt sorry for her. "Fine, but when there is any talk of rebellion plans, she goes," Enjolras would relent.

Enjolras maneuvered to their usual table, placing down his maps of the Paris districts. His eyes briefly flashed to her while Combeferre handed him some new artillery they gathered.

"Marius…" She said as he entered.

"Eponine." Marius smiled, and she could feel her pulse speed up. "Did you make it to the rally?"

"Yes, of course!" She followed him to the table where Enjolras was examining the cylinder of a revolver and where Marius set down a few letters. "Well, I caught what I could. I've just been…sitting here…" She trailed off when she felt Marius's fingers touch her face.

"Eponine, what happened?" He asked.

The welt on the right corner of her forehead was hardly hidden despite her attempt to cover it with her hair. She let out a wince when he gently brushed the bruised area. She caught Enjolras pause only momentarily.

"I fell. In the alley across the street. It looks worse than it is."

"Still, you should have Joly take a look at you."

From across the room, Courfeyrac called to Marius who pulled himself away to answer, and she was half-tempted to grab his hand in an eager attempt to convince him to stay.

She was still lost in the glorious moment of reliving Marius's hand on her forehead until the thud of the revolver dropping on the table reminded her of Enjolras's presence. They rarely spoke outside of his bedroom. She remembered how uncomfortable they both were on the day after their first night together: his awkward, contrived conversation about the weather, her forced questions about Maximilien de Robespierre, and the side glances and hidden guilt. It wasn't until she confronted him on his walk home a few days later by saying, "Let's not keep staring at each other from across the way, waiting for the other to bring it up. Yes, we had sex. But do we really need to talk at all?" She remembered how relieved he looked and the curt nod he gave as a response. Since then, they have just continued through the motions of life and learned to express some semblance of normalcy around each other, which was characterized by purposeful disregard.

"You have to be more careful." She broke their silence.

Enjolras didn't respond immediately. He looked down the barrel of a gun before putting it aside with the revolver.

"Really? I would think you like the attention." He casually handed the artillery to a passing Combeferre with a nod of approval.

Eponine couldn't help but roll her eyes. She stepped closer to him, but he still feigned disinterest. She sat at the edge of the table and watched the busy young students collect their pamphlets, make new notices, and pass around wine as their usual celebratory drink after a successful rally.

"He might not love me, but he's still my friend. He's just concerned. He thinks Montparnasse is beating me." She gave a sardonic huff. Strange that a murderous scoundrel is being accused of committing acts done by the fearless leader of the people's rights. "He even offered me advice on how to distance myself from my parents. He really is sweet…"

"Yes, and I think he is also passing that advice along to Cosette."

"Stop it." Eponine hissed, sending him a sharp look.

He stopped handling his maps and finally looked at her with his cool gray eyes that appeared almost blue in the light. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. That was the most of an apology she would get.

Enjolras may have a need for dominance in their sex life, but being raised as a gentleman instilled in him a small sense of shame when publicly stepping out of line in a woman's presence. She had seen the way he uncomfortably shifted when Grantaire or Prouvaire would even point out that a lady was bashfully making eyes at him. She truly had no idea that the statuesque, stern Enjolras the Chief was actually quite the cad in the bedroom. He had no reservations about releasing his pent-up anger and hatred in bed, which she didn't even realize until their fourth night together.

Up until their fourth night, Eponine and Enjolras simply had quick sessions of sex that ended with Enjolras making claims that it could never happen again, to which she would chuckle, "Every man wants to pretend it's the last time." The sex was just a momentary release of stress and tension on both of their ends. But that fourth night, it became something more, something different.

That fourth night together, Eponine had cried out Marius's name. Enjolras's immediate reaction was a strike across her face. To her surprise, she quite enjoyed it. It was then their nights became a ritual of violence to which they could escape and take comfort. It was an unusual, indefinable game that neither cared to put into words…

Enjolras turned his attention back to his maps, but Eponine could see the clench in his jaw indicating he was bothered. By Marius? Most likely. Enjolras doesn't like to share things that he felt belonged strictly to him.

"I'll be more careful," she heard him say.

Good. Eponine hated having to explain to Marius about how she accidentally fell down the stairs or hit her head on the edge of a desk. She was partly glad that Marius didn't believe a word of it or else he would think she was the clumsiest, most daft girl in France. But lying was better than admitting, "I'm letting your friend and fearless chief hurt me while we violently fuck, and even though I hate myself for it and I don't understand it, I can't stop."

Eponine jumped off the edge of the table and started to leave in search of Marius.

"Tonight?" Enjolras muttered.

Tonight? Two nights in a row would be a first for them.

"I don't know. I don't think my body can take another round so soon."

He grazed her body with a pensive stare, and she suddenly felt self-conscious as if she were naked in the middle of the café. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he thinking about last night? Perhaps about breaking his reserved focus and taking her right now, bent over on the table full of artillery?

Her face flushed with the memory of Enjolras's hand around her throat, and she subconsciously lifted her own hand to her neck where there was the small bruise of his thumbprint. Breaking out of her recollection, she found Enjolras suppressing a lazy smirk.

"So you say," he remarked. "Now if you excuse me, _mademoiselle,_ I have a revolution to plan."

He emphasized "mademoiselle" with a sarcastic, teasing bite that irked her for the rest of the day.

* * *

The backroom of the café was dark and smelled like tobacco and rum. At nearly 1:00 in the morning, the only light was two candles and the waning moon peering through the window. Hardening wax pooled just barely over the edge of the brass candle holder, and Enjolras had about two inches of candlelight remaining.

Stress is a natural reaction when faced with challenges, and he felt it in every inch of his body. The knots in his back from the insomniac night spent hunched over the table had stiffened in pain. His calves and knees felt the dull ache of sitting motionless from the uneven chair for the past six hours. He could put down the writing utensil, and his fingers would still form into an unnatural claw-like curl.

He had finally completed drafting a second speech about the unequal distribution of power among estates; he had struggled for hours deciding how to transition his argument about inaccessible social mobility for the people. When Combeferre left the café four hours prior, leaving Enjolras the last member there, he thought the speech would only take another two hours at most. But once he started writing, he realized his original speech was twofold and could be divided into separate rhetoric.

Soft footsteps could be heard creeping down the hall in his direction.

"Citizen Hucheloup, is that you?" Enjolras called out. When there was no reply, he carefully reached for his pistol.

The door opened and Eponine's head peered through. With a grunt, Enjolras squinted his eyes when he inadvertently stared directly into her lantern; his vision blurred like lowlight muting beyond range after hours of reading and writing in the dimmed light.

She entered and shut the heavy door behind her, putting her lantern out. "I thought I'd find you here. Do you normally expect to duel?" She gestured towards the gun.

He sighed. "You shouldn't creep up on people in the middle of the night. Someone may mistake you for a thief."

"Well, tonight, I am no thief."

"No, just a whore?"

She scoffed. "I don't recall being paid."

He pushed away from the table and slowly met her in the middle of the room. "I thought you declined tonight. Instead you come looking for me? Should I assume _every_ 'no' is a 'yes'?"

She still wasn't over his insult. "I guess a 'whore' like me needs money," she chided.

He chuckled. "And how much for your services?"

"12 sous."

He slid his index finger through a loop on the front tie of her dress and gave a sharp tug, jerking her dangerously close to him. "I'm just a poor revolutionary boy. I'm sure you can give me a better price."

Enjolras dipped his head to her height and pressed a kiss on her lips.

Sometimes, Eponine didn't understand him. It was as if nighttime transformed Enjolras into a completely different person, one that didn't mind the naughty teasing of foreplay and the savage lust for flesh. But once they would complete their deed, he would be back to silently ignoring her until she encountered him again on another night. _Or_, she thought, _maybe he was just better at hiding this side of him around his friends._

"I'm not a whore." She quietly insisted as he straightened to his height. Just the thought of being his whore made her uneasy, especially when she recalled the dark moments in her life when she did sell her body to keep from starving.

His eyes dilated in the darkness of the café, away from the small candles burning at the nearby table. He slowly began to untie the front of her dress with one hand, while the other hand pressed into the hollow of her back and pushed her hips against him. She released a slow breath when his lips lightly nipped at her collarbone, and she started to ask herself why she came here tonight. Did she hate herself that much? When her head still ached and her body was still sore, why in all that is right with the world did she come for another round?

Maybe the answer was in the kiss planted on the tender spot just below her ear. Or maybe it was in her pleasured gasp. Her open mouth was enough invitation for him to tilt his head and angle his mouth against hers, crashing hard into her. She would have fallen back if he hadn't been tightly pressing her body to him.

With every excruciating button she undid on his charcoal waist jacket, she could feel the beat of his heart thump faster. He lifted her by the waist, and her legs desperately wrapped around his hips as he carried her to a table, never breaking their kiss. She was dropped onto the table with her legs parted and clasped around him. His right hand tangled in her hair as they collided. She felt suffocated by his muscular frame weighing her down into the hard, cool surface.

He roughly jerked her head back until she released another surprised yelp. He stared into her open mouth with savage lust and brought his lips smashing back into hers, teeth clashing and tongues searching deep into the other mouth.

"I'm not a whore," she panted again between their kiss.

"You're _my_ whore," he growled, tearing her dress from her shoulders and sliding it off from her legs. His touch skimmed the blue bruises on her hip from the night before.

She made a soft sound as he found her hand and made her touch his hard arousal through his pants. She suddenly felt very aware of her vulnerable nakedness compared to him being fully clothed, and she knew how deliberate that was. He wanted to break her with her shame, with the fact that she originally resisted on meeting tonight only to come crawling through the dark to find him.

Not relenting, he looked her intently in the eyes as she breathlessly tucked her hand into his pants and slowly stroked the length of his manhood.

"Why else would you come here? At the café in the middle of the night unless you wanted me to fuck you like a _whore_?" he continued.

She didn't answer. She couldn't explain into words why she came, but she couldn't bring herself to say she was a whore.

But her silence was enough for him. "If you want to be a whore, I'll treat you like a whore."

He twisted his grip in her hair once more and dragged her off the table.

"Get on your knees."

Trembling with uncertainty, she knelt down in front of him. His pants slid to his feet and he released his throbbing erection. She knew what he wanted her to do, but she had never done this before. She had seen women on the streets doing it for a few sous. But the men she had been with before Enjolras were always just quick rounds of sex as they humped her against a wall while she imagined she was elsewhere. And with Enjolras, they had sex dozens of times, but she never was so intimate as to have his manhood so close to her face.

Her hand suddenly felt very small as she wrapped her fingers around him.

"Put it in your mouth," he ordered.

"I don't know…" she started to say, reddening in embarrassment.

"I have a shy whore?" He mocked. "Put it in your mouth and watch your teeth."

He stared at her small, wet tongue softly lick the head of his erection and he released a slow, quivered breath. He knew he was being especially cruel by just staring at her, not directing and encouraging the poor girl who obviously was nervous and had no idea what she was doing. He felt intoxicated with the image of her on her knees, engulfing his length into her hot mouth. He could come just looking at her.

He would be lying if he said that the position of power didn't play a role in his arousal. After all, his mind was always on the idea— strategizing ways to win power for the people, overthrowing the current leaders in power, using his power to persuade the people to revolt with him. His entire being was constructed on thoughts of power. Should it really surprise him or anyone else that throwing a girl to her knees gave him sick satisfaction?

Eponine's mouth felt like warm, wet velvet. He placed his hand through her smooth, brown hair and slowly rocked her head in a steady rhythm. She took him just barely halfway, and he pressed on a little deeper, just needing to feel more of himself inside of her. Saliva dripped down the sides of her lips and her eyes watered to the brim. She slightly resisted when he pushed her head to take him further.

Feeling his length hit the back of her throat, he gave a guttural groan and she swiftly pulled out, coughing and gagging.

"You can take it." He guided her back.

He held his cock and rubbed it around the edges of her mouth, smearing saliva around her lips. Ferociously, he clasped her jaw to part her lips once again.

The erotic feeling of having him probe her mouth made her wet with anticipation. The thought of having this part of Enjolras that had fucked her into oblivion get shoved in her mouth made her whimper in need. She noticed the vibrations of her whimper caused him to release another deep moan as he gripped her head tightly. Always the quick learner, she released her own slow moan, allowing the vibrations to send shivers of sensation to his engorged member.

He cursed, throwing his head back.

He couldn't suppress himself. He grabbed the sides of her head and savagely assailed her mouth, feeling himself sliding in her throat. He fiercely bucked against her, briefly forgetting her struggle to breathe. Or was it her visible struggle that _made_ him bite his lip in sadistic gratification?

Eponine's throat enclosed in shivers around him when her body tried to fight against his intrusion, tried to push him out. Her gag reflex kicking in and saliva pouring out of her mouth—it all felt unreal, and he didn't know why they hadn't done this earlier.

Finally, he released her. She dropped in heaves on the floor, swallowing her excess saliva. He noticed her fingers penetrating deeply into her slit, making small circular motions. He took a moment to process the precious fact that she had been pleasuring herself while her mouth was full of him.

Lifting her again by the hair, he flung her facedown on a table. Against the table's cold surface, she could feel his fingers rubbing her swollen clit, wet with her own juices.

"What are you?" He spat out, leaning forward on top of her with his lips pressed against her ear. When she didn't answer, he slapped her buttocks hard, making her cry out. The soft roundness of her bottom gently shook against the force of his hand. "What are you?"

"I'm…a whore." She faintly answered.

WHACK. He slapped her a second time, harder. "Try again."

"I'm _your_ whore!"

"And that's why you came here, right? You waltz in here when I'm doing work, when I'm trying to protect the lives of people like you! But all you care about is getting a good screw!" He seethed.

He shoved himself into her dripping wet hole and rocked against her hard. A strangled yell was all she could muster. Her nails gripped into the table, and she grated herself backward, grinding into him, needing to feel him as deep inside her as he could reach. She wanted him to tear her apart, to destroy her and split her in half. She screamed with every ridged stab into her.

"I'm your whore." She said again, delirious with pleasure.

"You came here wishing for someone to walk in on us, didn't you? You need an audience to feel good about yourself? You're nothing!"

The table roughly shook beneath them, and with every thrust, the table moved forward under his power.

"Maybe you hoped your darling Marius would see us. Imagine what he would say if he saw you bent over this table like the worthless whore you are. What would he think? Tell me, what would he think?"

He pressed his weight forward and tugged her head back. He wanted her to say it to his face.

"He would be disgusted with me." She softly exclaimed.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes on her. "But you would take it because you take anything from him. Any little feeling he threw your way, you would take it. You are pathetic and you are a nobody."

She couldn't hold back her tears at what he just said. His words cut her deep. But at the same time, his deep penetration threw her into a powerful, surging orgasm. Eponine violently shook beneath him and screamed. Her face expressed both pleasure and pain as she wept into the table.

Ready for his own release, he pulled out of her. He hurled her back onto the floor in front of him. She fell to her knees and felt his fingers lift her chin.

He quickly stroked himself in one hand, aiming its head at her face as she was still recovering from the throes of her orgasm. Nothing was more beautiful than to witness Eponine before him, looking him in the eyes with swollen pink lips, ready for him.

With a throaty groan, his thick stream of ejaculate shot onto her face, some landing on her soft tongue, the rest hitting her chin and cheeks and dripping down in globs onto her full breasts. He tasted salty and slightly sweet in her mouth.

His vision spotty, the mental image of Eponine, dazed and teary, licking her lips while covered in him would be forever imprinted in his memory.

From the ground, Eponine stared up at his face that was tilted down in her direction. His brows knitted together and shadowed his eyes. The gleam of sweat could be seen on his chest that was exposed under his half-buttoned shirt. His tufts of golden hair were weighted in sweat, and he looked as passionate as he does while on the stage riling the people for protest.

Turning away, she tried to use her palms to wipe his residue from her body and face. Enjolras swiftly retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket. While she used his red piece of cloth to clean her face, he soundlessly gathered her clothing and his pants from the floor.

The café suddenly seemed to grow colder and dirtier. He just began to notice the grime on the café floors and the ash his friends carelessly dumped onto the ground when refilling their smoking pipes. Her pale legs were now smeared in the soot.

It was also now that familiar, uncomfortable moment when the adrenaline thrill subsided and the realization of what they had just done settled in. It was no longer an escape, a fantasy, or any other idealized phrasing; what they had done was now part of their dysfunctional reality. All the things he said to her and all the things she said about herself could not be erased from their minds. Every sordid and debased act they committed against one another for these past couple of months could not just disappear. They knew things about each other that they couldn't even admit to themselves.

After gathering his papers, he turned to find her fully dressed. He threw his coat over his arm, lit their lanterns, and blew out the candles on the table. He led them out the back stairway to the Rue des Grés.

* * *

**ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Don't worry, they'll do more than just perform vulgar acts of sex as the story continues (although, there will be lots more). Thank you for reading! Reviews are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hello! I really appreciate the reviews, the follows, the favorites, and just the overall time you give in reading this, so thank you!

Also, some of you have been put off by words like "pussy" and "cock" because they sound too modern for 19th century speakers. THANK YOU SO MUCH for letting me know; but I use those words because they actually have been used for a very long time. For example, "cock" has been used as a slang word to describe "penis" since the 1600s, and some even argue that it comes from the word "pillicock" (penis) which was written in the 1300s. And "pussy" has been used to describe women since the 16th century and used in sexual context since the 19th century. So interesting! And coming from someone who reads erotica written by authors in the 18th and 19th century, I find those slang words (e.g., balls, fuck, cock, slut) used repeatedly, and the people during those times said and did some freaky stuff.

But yes, I do use other more modern words, such as "cum" or "come" as in "to come sexually" (used as a noun since the early/mid-1900s, but as a verb since the 17th century) or "dick" (attested to have been used since the late 19th century). I know that it's not authentic to use a 20th century word during a 19th century time period, but at the same time, if I wanted to keep this strictly authentic, I would be writing in French ;)

Happy reading!

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Academic?" Eponine started.

Grantaire smirked, rubbing the tip of his finger against the groove of his wine bottle. "Yes, but no."

"Adaptable?"

"No."

"Adventurous?"

"Not by _my_ definition." Grantaire shot a humorous look at Enjolras who pretended not to notice.

Somehow in the backroom of Le Café Musain, the universe had orchestrated for Enjolras to be left alone with these two drunken buffoons. He didn't know how it happened. One minute, he was completing the draft of a pamphlet that he hoped would be ready for distribution by next week. And the next minute, he looked up and his friends, with the exception of Grantaire, had gone on errands.

Grantaire was quiet enough, just gorged himself on wine and stared at Enjolras. It wasn't soon after that Eponine sauntered in, immediately searching the café for Marius before dejectedly sitting down with the modest hope that he would at least appear before the day was over. Grantaire shared his wine with the lady in the meantime. Seeing how quickly the two warmed up to each other, Enjolras was relieved that the two could entertain themselves and leave him to his work.

But an hour of wine changed the atmosphere of the room quickly. These two had constructed a silly game that Enjolras wanted no part of. It started with Grantaire stating to Eponine that he wondered why Enjolras was always so grave. He had said it loud enough for Enjolras to hear, hoping to strike a reaction that never came. Eponine responded to Grantaire by saying that Enjolras's severity originates from being initially constructed of marble and only recently made flesh. They continued to discuss the lines of his body and the curves that the sculptor must have given special attention to. _And what do you think the sculptor titled his masterpiece?_, Eponine had asked, which created the game they were currently playing—Eponine was to find the perfect word to describe Enjolras, and Grantaire gave her one hint: it begins with the letter A.

Enjolras had the extraordinary ability to stay focused, but every once in a while, he would catch their conversation.

"Abnormal?"

"No."

"Angry?"

"My dear Eponine, you have named all the right words, but just not _the_ word."

"Mmmm…aloof? Abstract. Aware. Appealing. Argumentative." She continued to list several adjectives that began with A, and Enjolras could have sworn she heavily emphasized the word "ashamed." "Appalling. Active. Armed." It was when she stated "affectionate" and "amorous" that the two burst into a fit of laughter.

After years of being in the same social circles, Enjolras had learned to deal with Grantaire's drunken games and nihilism. But frankly, Grantaire was a nuisance with no actual interest or investment in the cause. He would embarrass Patria before dying for her. He was a man that Enjolras tolerated at best. Enjolras made it clear several times that he had no interest in speaking with the stoic pessimist, but Grantaire kept insisting they were friends.

"Apollo…tic."

The drunkard heartily laughed. "I don't believe that's a word. Of, or relating to Apollo? Perhaps Apollonian? But no."

Eponine gave a shrill giggle when Grantaire had spilled some wine on her arm while filling her glass.

"I have an idea. Why don't we merely ask the Apollo himself of the name his sculptor bestowed upon him?"

"Hah, good luck getting Enjolras to say anything! He won't even reveal his first name. I think he would keep his favorite color a secret as if his life depended on it," Grantaire jibed.

Eponine admitted to herself that it was entertaining to watch Enjolras struggle to maintain dignity and order as he blocked their voices from his impenetrable mind. Whenever she would observe him in the public setting, he was either fiercely debating in favor of the Republic or on a stage talking his head off about the rights of the people. And when he was silent, he was listening to others debate over France or writing his speeches. She only ever interacted with him behind closed doors, so to tease him in public with the knowledge that he would remain resolute was amusing. She and Grantaire seemed to share a common interest in attempting to enrage Enjolras for their pleasure.

She took another sip of her wine as her eyes outlined the strong curve of his jaw.

"Monsieur Enjolras," she called. "When your master created you from marble, did he give you a name?"

He didn't answer.

"Enjolras, did some higher power put in you a soul?" Grantaire cheekily continued.

Without slowing the swirls of the metal nib**,** the Chief finally answered, "I don't lower myself to stupid remarks."

He heard the two fall into another howl of laughter just when the door opened and Combeferre entered. Enjolras had never been so thrilled to see his comrade.

"At last," Enjolras muttered. "Where have you been?"

"Enjolras," Combeferre said. His face looked rather confused. "There is a man who wants to speak with you. He says it's urgent."

Enjolras tucked away his papers and stood up just as the man entered. The stranger was a narrow man with fine, straight facial lines and dark brows. He removed his black hat and flattened the wisps of brown hair that fell out of place. He couldn't have been much older than they.

Combeferre shut the door and took his place next to Enjolras who gave him a questioning look, to which Combeferre responded with a small shrug.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "Citizen," he began, stepping forward. "What may I do for you?"

"My name is Andre Thierry Durand." The stranger announced with a crisp, sure tone. "My father is Francois Durand."

Eponine slid back in her chair.

"I am familiar with your father," Enjolras said. "He owns the boulangerie on the Rue de Vaugirard."

"I know it. His shop was broken into last night and our money has been lost. It appears we have a thief on our hands."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes in suspicion and held his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders in the process. "What exactly are you suggesting?" His tone dropped to a slow hiss.

Andre pulled out a red handkerchief with gold stitching along the edge and threw it at Enjolras's feet. The Chief's mouth slowly parted just slightly and he casually shifted his eyes to Eponine who was inching behind Grantaire and slumped in her seat. The handkerchief was the same he had given to her a few nights ago to clean herself after they enjoyed their latest tryst here in the café. Why it was in Andre's possession, he was unsure.

Releasing a long, agitated breath from his nostrils, he remained composed. "A handkerchief?"

"_Your_ handkerchief, Monsieur Enjolras. My father recognized it as yours. You bought a loaf not just four days ago, and he remembers you with it."

"If you have something to say, Citizen Durand, then I suggest you get on with it." Enjolras bit out tersely. The vein in his neck had started to throb and his fingers twitched in agitation as if anticipating an passionate outburst.

"This handkerchief was found where we keep our finances. We discovered it when we discovered the money had been stolen. I know what sort of vermin you and your friends are. Yelling about change and giving power to the people. Well, the only thing you're giving back is our money, you rat!"

Combeferre stepped forward to intervene, but Enjolras lunged faster and struck the man with a forceful bow to the chin.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre shouted as Eponine and Grantaire both jumped from their seats.

"You would do well to remember that I am no thief," Enjolras seethed.

"The handkerchief is yours!"

"I do believe more than one person in France possesses a red handkerchief," Grantaire quipped.

"The gold emblem is the mark of your father's." Andres gestured to the piece of cloth and gained his footing. "You stole four Napoleons to support your damn cause—"

"There is no solid proof." Combeferre interjected. "This is all conjecture and you have no standing. Leave now!"

"I'm not leaving—"

Enjolras pulled out his pistol, half-cocked and loaded, and aimed it directly at the man's face.

The man's eyes widened as he backed against the wall. Strange how quickly one's demeanor changes when faced with a gun. "I come unarmed."

"Pity." Enjolras mused.

"As a gentleman, you cannot—"

"Unfortunately for you, I am no gentleman. I am but vermin." There was a rage in Enjolras's eye as his finger tightened around the trigger and his thumb prepared to fully cock the hammer. He saw the panic in Andre's face and he wondered if that face would stay locked in panic even with a bullet lodged through the forehead.

"Enjolras, stop." Combeferre reasoned.

"If they have already judged my fate to be spent with a red cap in Grand Châtelet, what does it matter if I take a life before the police arrive?"

Andre lifted his quaking hands and shuddered out, "We have not called any authorities. We just want the money returned. Your father was once a generous patron, which is why we came to your personally before involving police."

Enjolras's lip twitched at the mention of his father.

He did believe the man had sincerely expected for the money to be returned and the situation forgotten, and he knew that holding the man at gunpoint was not helping his case. But there was a voice whispering in him to pull the trigger. Just kill a man and get it over with. The revolution they were gradually planning as General LaMarque inched closer to death would require some lives to be lost in the process, so what's one man now? Just to whet his appetite. He thought it was amazing how Andre, a respected man from a well-connected family and with an uncle as a high-ranked police official, was now sniveling before him…

Is this the face of death? A face disfigured by fear, eyes enlarged like saucers, brows raised with a final plea? Is this the look seconds before the bullet yaws through the body? Is it really that easy to end a life—just one press of the finger? Enjolras was enthralled by the expression, the final look. When he thought about it, just _really _thought about it—he can kill this man, or any man, because it's _that_ easy. Anyone could walk out the door and shoot someone on the street. Anyone could bludgeon a stranger to death or choke the life out, just as kings can command a man to the guillotine simply because they can. So when does taking a life justify as a means to an end? For revolution? For power? For Patria?

Is this how his own life would end? His back against the wall, a gun aimed at his face…Would their little lives and deaths be masterpieces?

Enjolras's hand began to tremble with the internal fight of lowering his gun. His volcanic outburst propelled him to see just what death would look like under his hand. All he had to do was pull the trigger. This was the closest he has gotten in his temptation to kill a man, and he wanted any excuse to see death. Just to prepare himself. He _needed_ it. He needed to know what it was like to see a man die, observe how the eyes change when life bleeds away. Does it go quickly like a candle's light under a quick breath, or does it drift dreamily like ships bobbing in bleeding blue lines?

He heard Combeferre say something about putting away the gun and the situation being a mere misunderstanding, but he was too mesmerized by the sweat beading on Andre's nose to care. Before he even realized it, he had taken a step forward and pressed the gun under the man's chin.

"I wonder how your father would feel to discover your brains half-blown on the wall…"

"Enjolras!" Combeferre yelled again, finally snapping Enjolras away from his dark reflections.

A little shaken and bewildered, he lowered the gun and stepped away from Andre who dashed out the door. Grantaire and Combeferre exchanged concerned looks and swiftly grabbed hold of Enjolras who was gradually regaining composure.

"Are you all right?" Combeferre asked, taking the gun from Enjolras's hand. "Terror is not the spark to freedom."

"I'm unsure what came over me," he muttered.

"Well, you had to defend your name…" Grantaire attempted to justify, though weakly. "But I don't think senior Durand is going to take this well."

"Enjolras, _did_ you take the money?" He looked pained to ask.

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, remembering how this all started. "No." He suddenly realized that the room was missing a person. "Where's Eponine?"

* * *

It didn't take long to find her running from the café. She hadn't gotten far, and Enjolras was quick to maze through the Parisian crowd. She kept looking behind her, searching the hoard of faces to ensure no one was following her without having realized that Enjolras had already spotted her and was on her trail. She ducked into the thin passage between two houses, and he rushed to gain her.

Eponine leaned her shoulder against the wall with her back to the moving crowd, and began fussing with her skirt.

"Where is it?" She heard Enjolras's voice sharply behind her.

She jumped with a tiny gasp and spun around to find him blocking the opening of the alley. Her head already felt woozy from the wine, but she could feel the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Would you just leave me alone?" She barked.

His hands reached forward and began frisking along her body. They hurriedly explored the material at her waist and weaved around the folds of her skirt. His skin brushed over her slender legs and thighs, sensing nothing but dried dirt that clung to her body.

She rolled her eyes in satisfaction when he found nothing. "Are you quite finished?"

He pulled beneath her skirt, and she yelled and slapped his hand away. When her irritation turned into urgent protest, he felt a small pouch tucked between the linings of her tattered undergarments.

"Give that back!" She yelled, lunging at him as he stepped away and opened the contents.

"Four gold coins." He muttered, shaking his head.

She snatched the money and defensively held it behind her back, taking a few steps away from him.

"This is the most money I have ever possessed," Eponine said.

"So you steal the money and frame me?"

"That was a mistake. I hadn't realized that damn handkerchief was in my pocket and dropped."

She hated the way he was looking at her right now, that look of judgment—lips closed in a thin line, eyebrows raised in the center, eyes unflinchingly fixed on her. They never looked at each other with judging eyes before, despite all they have done and said to each other. But now over four gold coins, she is suddenly being treated like a murderer?

"Don't look at me like that," she rushed out, trying to move past him.

He blocked her path. "I believe the impoverished have every right to do what they must when we have these _kings _who do nothing for us. But you have now implicated me because of your carelessness! How can you be so foolish—"

"Stop it!" She shouted. "Do you know the risk I took to get this? This can last me for a very long time, and quite honestly, I do not have to stand here and listen to you berate me like a child!"

Eponine shoved past him, but he grabbed her arm.

"You have to return it," he said.

"No!"

"No? _My_ handkerchief was found where the money was stolen just as I acquire new artillery supplies. What do you think anyone is going to believe when officials start investigating?"

She huffed, shaking her head. "No one will investigate. Besides, you now have the handkerchief in your possession. It's only his word against yours."

"Citizen Durand had a man barely twenty years of age thrown in prison for stealing a loaf of bread based on hearsay. Their family has connections to the police. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

This was the most he had ever spoken to her in public without a stiff recitation in his voice, and perhaps at any other time she might have welcomed it. But the subject was not up for debate—she was determined to keep the money.

"Fine, I'll return it," she lied.

She jerked her arm from his grip. He leaned back, not in resignation but in suspicious observance. He wanted to believe her; she wasn't ignorant of prison's monstrosity and she surely wouldn't let him take the blame, correct?

She tucked the small sack of coins into the folds of her skirt and fled. He didn't follow.

As Eponine raced away, she held her hand protectively over the pouch. She just needed to put distance between the two of them before he realized that she had no intention of returning the money. Having been raised on these streets, she looped through familiar alleys and passageways and hopped over several gates before she felt secure in the maze she created between herself and the revolutionary.

At last, she stopped running and entered a boucherie, made a little purchase, and decided to rest somewhere quiet.

She had elected on situating herself near the Seine, settling beneath a tree and enjoying the cool breeze. She was celebrating her newly acquired fortune with half a baked chicken on her lap. Tearing the ligaments apart with her fingers and appreciating the succulent taste, she thought how the only thing missing was Marius.

He was probably off writing love notes to Cosette, that little alouette who didn't deserve even a quarter of what she had. Cosette was nothing when they were children. How could their situations have changed so drastically to the point that even Marius was enthralled by Cosette?

She suddenly felt ill, unsure if the feeling was caused by the mental image of Marius fawning over Cosette or the chicken she devoured in minutes. As her stomach settled and swelled with fullness, she sucked her fingers and wiped her greasy palms against her skirt. She felt the small pouch at her side and sighed dreamily, already planning what her next meal should be.

She didn't understand how Enjolras could be so unreasonable for a man who studied law. How could he expect her to return the money knowing the squalor that she has to live through every day? And what she _certainly_ did not understand was why Enjolras trusted her enough to let her off with the money or why he didn't reveal her as the thief the second Monsieur Durand appeared at the café. Maybe he thought she would do the "right thing" on her own. That was one thing she could appreciate about Enjolras—he always believed the goodness of human righteousness would prevail.

"_How little you know of hunger and thirst…" _Eponine thought to herself, shaking her head. And this was the man who wanted to lead the masses against the king?

She wondered if this minor conflict of opinions would prevent her from seeing him tonight as they had planned. Maybe she should wait another night before visiting until this situation was forgotten.

Sometimes, she wondered if Enjolras would ever go too far, especially when she would see the crazed look in his eyes. It was the look of a man having already committed himself to death, and therefore, longed to dwell in it. What if he went too far with her one day and just…

She spotted Marius and Prouvaire turn the corner of the street ahead. They rapidly paced themselves, talking furiously.

She jumped to her feet in excitement, dropping the chewed chicken bones from her lap and onto the grass, and quickly ran to them.

"Marius!" She shouted.

They turned to face her but didn't slow their steps for a moment as she caught up.

"Marius, I haven't seen you all day. Where are you two gentlemen off to?" She struggled to keep up.

"You have not heard," Marius started shakily. "Enjolras was found beaten behind the café. Louison heard the men beating him and retrieved Combeferre and Grantaire—"

"Men? Who are they?" Eponine asked, fearing the answer.

Prouvaire shrugged. "I'm unsure. I don't know what happened, but there was a dispute over money. When Combeferre arrived, they promised they would return with authorities tomorrow unless the money was accounted for."

"Combeferre took him home. Joly's on his way to check if any bones need setting. That's where we're heading." Marius finished, and then said to Combeferre, "Perhaps his father can be contacted in time to pay the debt?"

"Not at all. He never speaks of his father."

"I…" She stopped walking. "I have something to do." She dashed in the other direction.

If not human righteousness, then the blunt strike of guilt on the conscience would suffice.

* * *

Joly was laughing. That was a good sign.

Even waiting days after the attack, Eponine avoided visiting. But for her own peace of mind, she needed to see how Enjolras was doing. She had already heard from Marius of what happened, of how Andre returned to the café with friends and dragged Enjolras to the alley where they beat him.

She finally gathered enough courage to creep up the stairs towards Enjolras's room, where she heard his friends inside.

She stood by the door, listening.

"It seems our Antinous will not drown in the Nile, but die from confinement in bed," Grantaire exclaimed.

"At this rate, you'll see your end before any chance of rebellion," added Courfeyrac.

"Never," she heard Enjolras answer.

"Do you require entertainment?"

"I have my books."

"You need rest, not books," said Joly. "Drink this. There's valerian to help you sleep. I know it tastes dreadful, but drink it. I'll return in the morning."

"No need."

Eponine heard the men's shuffle to the door and she crept further into the shadows of the hallway, concealing herself as the men exited his room. She waited until she heard the front door shut and the men's chatter disappear. When she faced Enjolras's closed door, she was struck with a sudden anxiety of what she would see. How badly was he beaten? Would he blame her for his afflictions? Would this serve only as further validation of how she was such a filthy street rat?

She was unsure how long she stood in front of his closed door, stalking back and forth as she debated whether or not to enter. Just as she decided to leave, Enjolras declared from inside, "Marius isn't here."

She hated when he did that—predicted her moves and whereabouts.

Sighing in irritation, she entered his room. "How did you know I was there?"

He was seated upright on his bed with a book on his lap and his back cushioned with a pillow against the wall. "Shadows under the door."

Under his thin white shirt, newly wrapped bandages could be seen applied over his entire torso. His left arm was bound and supported by a stiff board. Patched bruises were sporadically printed in multiple shades of hues over his neck and face, and it was particularly difficult for Eponine to stare at the blood seeping from the bandage at his temple. Fortunately, his legs didn't appear broken, which she knew from friends would have been a painful healing process. But the thin blanket had covered only to his knees, and from the knees to his feet were welts that looked as if he had been beaten with a large, weighted stick.

And what if Combeferre and Grantaire hadn't arrived in time to save him?

She pushed that question away, not wanting to dwell on the thought. She wouldn't have been able to bear the weight of a man's death.

"I returned the money," she finally said.

"I know."

Courfeyrac had earlier announced that the money was found in Monsieur Francois Durand's drawer. Perhaps the man had only misplaced it and jumped too quickly to conclusions, they thought. He offered a large basket of bread and small cakes as an apology, which Enjolras had requested to be given to the poor.

"I would have returned it earlier, but I needed to replace the money I had already spent…"

Often prone to listening but never relenting, Enjolras remained quiet.

She leaned against the wall and traced her index finger along a rough patch of stone.

"Why didn't you tell them it was I who stole the money?"

Enjolras answered simply, "You're a child of poverty."

"Even if that meant injustice for you?" She asked. "Look at you. Look at what they did to you."

With that stern, focused voice, he confessed slowly, "I wanted to kill Citizen Durand simply because I could. I put a gun to his face and I _know_ I would have pulled the trigger if Combeferre hadn't stopped me. How could I be a pillar of the Republic if I act no better than a king? I judged him as an executioner would judge, and so I blame no one but myself for his retaliation."

Witnessing him helpless in a bed was unfamiliar to Eponine. This lion seemed now a kitten.

She approached his bed with a dry towel that she lifted from his chair. She carefully brushed the hair from his forehead and dabbed the towel along his hairline to soak the beads of sweat.

Vigilant around the raised bruises, she gently pressed the towel along the side of his face. When she reached his jaw, her fingers brushed the rough hairs that had sprouted within the past few days. If there was any part of his body that she favored most, it was his jawline, shaped as if he had been truly constructed from marble. She half-heartedly smiled when she thought about how she never received the answer to Grantaire's "perfect word."

She recognized the uncertainty in Enjolras's hooded eyes as she mindfully moved the cloth to the base of his throat. It was the same look he wore on the first three nights they were intimate. It was a look that questioned her movements, a look of vulnerability when he didn't possess complete control. She sometimes forgets that she was the one who initiated their sexual relationship and how unsure he was in the beginning.

It had started months ago when Marius asked her to deliver two notes in one night: one to Cosette and one to Enjolras. After transporting the note to Cosette and feeling utterly broken and disgusted at the sight of Cosette creeping to the yard to pick up her love letter, Eponine's final stop was to Enjolras. Rather than depart after the delivery, she just stared from the open doorway as he read the letter with unbroken focus. When he had finished, he finally noticed her still standing there—

"_Does Marius expect a response tonight?" Enjolras had questioned._

_She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him. Her eyes were fixated on nothing as she simply looked straight ahead and thought about Marius. She was losing him and there was nothing she could do about it._

_Enjolras cautiously moved to her. He lowered himself to her height and peered into her vacant eyes, perhaps wondering if she had gone dumb. "Do you need to sit down?"_

_Without thinking, she pressed her lips to his. It was a flutter of a kiss. Barely there. He straightened immediately, shaken and astounded. _

_Her entire body felt warm, and she could sense her blood rushing through her veins and reddening her cheeks when she couldn't get the image of Marius and Cosette from her mind. She gave a little smile to Enjolras, partly indifferent, partly flirtatious. She shrugged her shoulders when she reached for him again, more anxiously this time._

_When he stepped back in anger, she lunged and kissed him fiercely. She felt him pulling away, gently pushing her body from his, but she only insisted more hysterically until she had him against the wall._

"_Citizen Thenardier, what are you doing?" He asked in a raised voice, struggling to keep his reserved tone._

_She simply shook her head, in tears, and threw her lips onto his once again. His mouth stayed tightly closed, but she continued to roll her lips over his, using her tongue to coax his mouth open. Within seconds, his lips began to respond, cautiously and timidly at first until she gripped a handful of his hair in a frantic need to forget everything. She eventually felt his hands at her waist and his fingers sensuously creeping along her lower back. When one hand came to her breast and tightly squeezed, she discovered to her surprise that this couldn't have been his first time._

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked breathlessly.

She blinked. Eponine realized that she had been running her fingers through his hair, caressing his thick locks and breaking through the dried blood clinging to his strands.

He swallowed uneasily, but his stern gaze stayed cold and demure. She had forgotten how endearing he could be.

Eponine stopped grazing through his blond waves. At this moment, she wanted to tell him he didn't always have to be strong. He didn't always need to walk through life with one foot already through death's door. He didn't need to feed his fascination for power and pain because the world was already doing that on its own.

She couldn't find the words, so instead, like a whisper, she kissed him.

Her hand, still clutching the towel, was situated at the low opening of his shirt. She could feel the faint thud of his heart gain speed, and she wondered if that was a solicitation for her to proceed. Partly unsure, she didn't react until his right hand lifted to her face and his thumb traced the plump curve of her bottom lip.

As if by instinct, she opened her mouth and he inserted his rough, large index finger completely inside. She closed her lips firmly and sucked hard, moving along its length. She could taste dirt, ink, and dried blood, feel the small lines of his fingerprints and the rough callous on the tip of his finger. She used her tongue to play along the base, then gently bit down.

Enjolras's finger curved down to the opening of her throat. It felt warm and tight, and he grew hard imaging it was his cock instead of his finger that explored her mouth. Her soft tongue massaged against his skin, and he added a second finger, which she welcomed with a small moan. He rocked his fingers in and out of her mouth, and she squeezed his hand, encouraging him deeper.

He pulled his fingers away and threw the book from his lap to the side. He managed to straighten up against the pillow behind his back, but not without wincing from the painful struggle.

She unlaced the back of her dress warily, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with removing her clothing as he simply watched. They were usually too preoccupied in the throes of passion to realize that they had thrown off their clothes, and then they would recognize their nakedness when it was time to dress in uneasy silence; to stand before Enjolras now and remove her clothes felt too intimate and personal.

Eponine had heard of women in brothels who could seductively remove their items of wear with the right combination of sensuality and tease, but she could never do that.

As if he was reading her mind, he suppressed a smirk when she blushed at how ungracefully her dress had fallen to the floor. She bit her lower lip and looked at her dirty feet as she slid off her torn shoes. She removed the blanket covering his thighs and carefully released his throbbing erection from his drawers.

With wary movements, careful not to touch his left arm cradled in wraps and worried about hitting his bruises, she climbed onto him. She stroked his erect member in her hands as if mentally preparing herself for its girth. She gradually sank down onto his hard manhood inch by inch, releasing high-pitched sighs as she felt him stretching her open. Every time he was in her felt like the first time, and she took him in slowly to accustom to his length.

Perhaps from the valerian or from simple exhaustion, Enjolras was able to resist the urge to force her tight body onto his length. He groaned as she slid in excruciating slowness. She could feel his cock spreading open her inner walls and filling her with a need she didn't know existed.

When she impaled herself completely on him, she gasped at his fullness and fell forward onto his chest, hitting his bandaged torso. The pressure made him jerk and hiss in pain, and she quickly pulled away with a quick apology.

Enjolras's eyes had a daring, crazed glint when he shook his head. "Do it again," he challenged.

Was this a test? A little unsure, but obeying, she held her palm against the bandage at his waist and applied a long, deep pressure to his wound. He yelled an agonizing holler that she never heard before. His face reddened in strain and his eyes brimmed with raw pain. She lurched away in terror, but his right hand grabbed the back of her head and brought her lips smashing into his.

She gave a tiny mewl when his teeth scraped against her lip and his tongue roughly massaged against hers. His grip on her head was unyielding as he ravished her mouth. It was as if he wanted to suck the air from her lungs and she desperately wanted to give it away.

Eponine tasted foreign, medicinal herbs as he sucked her tongue and breathed out a throated command: "Fuck me."

Slowly but eagerly, her hips rocked against his as she slid along his length. Enjolras could feel her warm wetness seeping from her and trickling down his testicles with every rhythmic roll of her body. He released the hold on the back of her head, and she pulled away enough to look down at where their bodies met in forceful frenzy.

She leaned back on her hands, allowing him to take in the full frontal view of her body as she rode him and grounded her body into his. Her nipples were erect and sensitive against the cool air as her soft breasts bounced and swayed to her gyrations. Enjolras groaned at the sight of her spread legs rubbing her wetness hard against him, her small hips pummeling into him. When her inner muscles squeezed tightly around his cock, Enjolras seethed with pleasure, pulled her body back to him, and bit into her neck like an enraged animal.

The affliction brought Eponine to a shriek, and she bucked wildly against him, tugging at his hair harshly and forgetting his injuries. She heard an agonizing yell and felt a hand at her hip that shoved her little body deeper onto him, and her body spasmed. She jerked in convulsions over his cock and wailed out his name as she hit her climax in piercing moans.

She panted against his chest, feeling slightly numb by the sensation that overtook her. When she sat up to catch her breath, she found that the bandage by his temple had fallen where she grabbed his hair. The wound looked ghastly and in need of re-bandaging.

"Enjolras…" She whispered worriedly, attempting to examine the wound.

"Stop it," he sighed, moving his head from her prying hands.

He looked pale and exhausted. Almost as if he would faint or fall into delirium. She gazed with a quiet wonder, and then slowly continued to rock her body against his cock, still throbbing and needing urgent release. Her hands gently cupped his face, and she kissed him as sensuously and compassionately as her body moved with his. It wasn't a desperate, wild kiss to which they had grown accustomed; it was careful and soft and tender.

He didn't kiss her back. That confusing, disconcerted look had returned to his eyes. He tried to pull away, but her lips kept finding his with their new coaxing, comforting motions. She proceeded to kiss him gently, fluttering her lips along his jaw, then again returning to his still mouth. He just stared at her with a lost, medicated expression when she made soothing "shhhh" sounds between her kisses.

Eponine felt that familiar twitch in his manhood and she rode him out in undulated rhythm. The walls of her vagina tightened around him, milking him when he groaned and squeezed her hip, not letting go until he released every drop of himself into her.

Their bodies went limp, but Eponine kissed him one more time. When she started to sit upright, he leaned forward to hold the kiss just a few seconds longer.

When he pulled away, it was now her turn to feel uneasy by his action. The kiss made her realize that this was the first time that sex ended without warlike defeat. This was the first time that the two engaged in something sensuous, not ugly and dark, even if it was only for the last few minutes. The times before were either silent and awkward or violent and hateful, but this was…different. She knew that a large part of the reason was because Enjolras was sedated, but she was unsure how to register the fact that she enjoyed those last few minutes.

"I…" Eponine started, uncertain how to handle the weight of his probing stare. She wasn't used to this strange calm after intercourse. The stillness was becoming frightening and terrible. She felt like she was supposed to say something. _Was_ she supposed to say something? Something like, _that felt nice_ or _thanks _or _I'm sorry_? Finally, she said slowly, "I wonder if Marius is home yet."

And that was the sound of a body falling off a cliff. And she jumped knowingly.

She saw Enjolras's shoulders tense against the pillow and his eyes narrow in cold wrath. Witnessing his delirious expression transform into blazing vengeance was like watching the rise of the apocalypse that would annihilate her in a single blow. His fingers curved into stony fists, and she stopped breathing. She was afraid to make any little movement.

Enjolras pulled his lips inward between his teeth and huffed out of his nose twice before seething out in a dangerously low voice, "Get the fuck off of me."

A terrible chill went down Eponine's spine. She had expected to receive a blunt force blow or a lengthy chastisement, not a jagged breath filled with sincere loathing. "I—"

"Get off of me before I strangle you, you _fucking cunt_."

Alarmed, she jumped off and stepped several feet away from his reach, thankful he was confined to the bed. His silent, stormy expression told her to leave without saying a word, and it wasn't until after she exited his room, sloppily retying her dress, that she exhaled the deep breath she was holding in.

Yes, if there was one thing she and Grantaire seemed to share, it was their pleasure in enraging Enjolras. He may possess a dangerous fascination with death and power, but she had to admit that she enjoyed bringing him there; witnessing his angelic eyes glaze over to cruel violence shot a terrible thrill through her body that always left her feeling disgusted with herself. It was as if she simply couldn't allow the night to end without wallowing in rejection no matter how much she wished it otherwise.

Eponine walked home in the merciless night, pushing away the thought that there was something wrong with her. As the shadows engulfed her small form, she left a trail smelling of labdanum and blood.

* * *

**ADDITIONAL NOTES:**

Out of the next few chapters I have drafted, this chapter might be the tamest, but still essential. Enjolras will soon be recovered, which means more fun…

Reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Thanks for reading! You're lovely!

Special thanks for the reviews to Airamamba, TcEm, KenTomoInuKik, jwren, Enchanter, Mormeril Dark Lady of Insanity, JuliaGlyn99, ThatTheaterFan, s4tine, pinkglitter2901, clarapocket, OnlyOnMyOwn, Inferno4, annadreama, EmMarie96, and xXx A Little Fall of Rain xXx!

**WARNINGS:** dubious sexual consent/non-consent, explicit sexual situations, kink, D/s (dominant men), violence, & profanity. In other words, there will be _a lot_ of explicit, vulgar acts of sex. If _any_ of this bothers you, please do not read this story.

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

She found Cosette sitting by a mirror brushing her golden locks, a small chamberstick illuminating a soft glow on her bright face. As ritual demanded, Eponine climbed over the low fence and stalked in the shadows to ensure Cosette's father wouldn't detect her. She didn't know who he was, but she was warned by Marius not to allow the elder man to find her or the note.

By the time Eponine reached the window and peered inside, Cosette was rearranging her needlework. A beautiful soft quilt lay over her bed that was neatly tucked on all four corners. Cosette's linen nightgown draped past her knees in a creamy white radiance, and she scratched at the gauged cuff fastened by one small button.

Eponine half-thought to flee from the jealousy brewing in the pit of her stomach, but she looked at the small note in her hand that Marius specifically asked her to deliver and she decided to stay.

Her bony knuckle gently tapped against the barred window. She refused to check if Cosette saw her, but she heard the girl's soft footsteps quickly exit the bedroom. Eponine pulled her cap lower over her face and crossed through the garden to meet her halfway.

"Thank you," Cosette whispered.

Eponine peeked from under the visor of her cap as she slipped her the note. With every visit, Cosette seemed to grow disgustingly more beautiful. Her pursed, pink lips curved into gracious appreciation as she accepted the small letter. Where Eponine saw blemishes and sun stains on her own face, Cosette's skin was milky and soft.

She tugged at her cap once again and huffed to herself.

Cosette slipped a sou into the other's hand. "It's not much, but for your services."

Eponine's throat constricted as she was tempted to grab her and scream, _"Do you even know who I am?"_ But she ducked her head lower and gave a tiny nod. When she peeked up again, Cosette had already run back inside the house.

The starless sky set the streets dark. Gray wisps of clouds textured the night, and as a child, Eponine once thought those wisps and swirls were evidence that fairies existed on some otherworldly plane, painting the sky. As she trudged into the heart of Paris, she couldn't stop dwelling on how Cosette's hands were so delicate when they touched Eponine's.

She looked at her own hands. Her fingers were calloused and rigid. All those nights climbing fences had left her palms rough and dirty, and all those nights she practiced picking locks had hardened the tips of her fingers. She wondered if Cosette was horrified to touch her coarse hands, but she edged the thought away and kicked a rock on the ground.

Instead, she started to think about what Marius could have written in that letter. Did he declare his undying love? Did he write poetry? Did he muse over a future he envisioned for the two of them?

She stopped walking when she realized where her legs had taken her. She looked up at Enjolas's window. It looked dark inside, but she knew it was still too early for him to sleep. But then again, she had heard that he had recently taken up the habit of staying awake for several consecutive days before his body binged on sleep. Maybe she would just check…

* * *

When Eponine used his red handkerchief to tie her hair back, he should have known she wanted trouble.

Enjolras hadn't seen her in nearly three weeks. The first two weeks he had spent in bed healing and using the time to reread such documents by Montesquieu, Rousseau, even Condorcet. As he busied himself with law and politics, he rarely thought about Eponine.

It wasn't until news of General Lamarque's illness that Enjolras ignored Joly's recommendations and left his bed to take to the streets. He would rally outside of General Lamarque's house and invigorate the angry crowds shouting "vivre Lamarque!" until authorities would appear and break them up. While at the café, the friends began to materialize plans of a rebellion and strategize when and how to start the revolt. With these plans being discussed, women were not allowed to enter the backroom, and so, Eponine had resorted to waiting in the front of the café for Marius.

There was only one woman that constantly ran through Enjolras's mind and to whom he gave unconditional love, and she was his dear Patria. He had been in love with her for years and dedicated his life to the freedom she had to offer.

But when Eponine came creeping into his room, he awoke curiously.

She placed her lantern on the desk and tossed a cap to the floor that released a wave of brown hair. Enjolras didn't get up, just laid there half asleep in a haze, in that strange stage of hypnagogia that left him wondering if she was simply a phantom created by his inner voice.

No words were exchanged when she crawled into his bed and came within an inch of his face. He leaned forward, ready to take her lips, but she pulled away and slithered down his body instead. When he felt her slide underneath his thin blanket, he dropped his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes with quiet satisfaction.

He felt her warm mouth gently kiss his hardening member, her lips slowly sucking his testicles that made him groan into the muddled night. Holding him in one hand, she licked up the length of his manhood and took the head into her mouth and sucked hard. Her lips slowly danced around the tip as if she were savoring the taste and feel. She would swallow him whole, then pull away, using her tongue to roam the sensitive head. Then, do it again.

He pulled the covers off and saw her with a mouth full of him, staring with her large brown eyes.

He reached forward to push the mass of hair from her face, and she sat up momentarily. She smoothed her hair back, pulled it into a tail, and took his red handkerchief from the nearby desk to tie it into place.

A low growl involuntarily escaped him, but he didn't protest the second her mouth was back on him.

Never one to awaken quickly, he still fought to keep the drowsiness at bay even as he stared at her pretty face eagerly plunging over him. Her deeps moans traveled his entire length, and by reflex, he nudged upward further into her mouth, blocking her airway.

He was in delirium watching her head bob over his lap. The smoothness of her tongue spreading her saliva around him made his toes curl, and he released another low groan. He didn't question why her skills had improved since last time; he just watched her tap the head against her lips and cheeks before shoving as much as she could back inside of her, sucking hard in steady rhythm.

Finally, she took him in her throat, every centimeter had disappeared in her reaching mouth. Her lips brushed the soft hairs of his groin, and he groaned in amazement, now fully awake and attentive.

He perched himself on his elbows and watched how her chin pressed against his testicles. It took him a second to realize she was gagging, but instead of pulling away, she held him there for several seconds, then dug her head even further into his lap.

"God…" He felt her tighten as she choked on him. "I'm going to come," he groaned as he twitched rapidly against the walls of her throat.

When she slightly pulled back, he reached forward and held her head in place. He cursed again when a wave of ecstasy shook him and his warm ejaculate flooded her mouth, pumping a heavy load. He could feel it dripping around his cock that was still shoved in her.

She pulled her mouth away with deliberate care to suck every drop of him and hold it in her mouth. Still crouched at his lap, she swished his cum around, savoring the taste, and opened up to expose his white load pooled on her tongue.

"Fuck…" he whispered in awe. Then wondered, _"Where did she learn to do that?"_

She swallowed slowly.

Enjolras pulled her body forward until she sprawled over him, removing the handkerchief from her hair in the process. Taking her face in two full hands, he planted a lazy kiss over her mouth. When he let go, his head fell back into the pillow in tired defeat.

Eponine slid to his side, a little bewildered by the kiss. She wondered if that was supposed to be his way of saying "thank you" or just another unexpected gesture that she should have learned to expect by now.

With the exception of the flickering lantern casting shadows on the wall, the room was still.

"I haven't seen you in a while," she said. "I was just coming back from delivering a letter to Cosette. From Marius."

He huffed as if he was internally laughing at something. "Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Eponine Thenardier, so completely taken with Marius that she even volunteers to deliver the _love notes _between him and his fair lady." He paused, then added wryly, "Sorry to disappoint you."

"What?" She asked harshly, because her annoyance with him could rarely be contained.

He finally looked at her. "You want me to hurt you."

This was the first time that either of them said aloud the reason for why she did this. To Enjolras, it was no coincidence she wanted to see him on the same night she was wallowing in self-hatred for doing Marius's bidding.

Shocked at his declaration, she jumped out of the bed, but his eyes didn't follow her. She folded her arms, rubbing her hands down the sides of each as if she were trying to rub something invisible off of her body.

She looked out the window, not staring at anything in particular—the fluttering moths burning against the street lanterns, the sleeping bodies scattered on various corners of the street, a brown dog barking at a darkened space.

Enjolras wasn't wrong though. They both knew it. If he were, she would have already stormed out the door.

Eponine turned her head to him, checking if he was evaluating her with his eyes, thinking any differently of her now that he said it aloud.

He simply stared at the ceiling. "Give me ten minutes."

Eponine remained by the window. Although she had nothing in this world, no ties that kept her here, she still believed that her Heavenly Savior might not have completely forsaken her. She found herself often praying that if Marius would just love her, she would do anything in her power to lead a straight life. Stop all criminal activity, end this abominable nonsense with Enjolras, start a home and become a wife and raise their children to be good Christian citizens. But perhaps she can't bargain with God, she thought. Maybe there wasn't even a God and all her nightly conversations with Him were wasted breath and time, false hope that she could actually _be_ someone. _Anyone_.

_Please, just let me be anyone but me,_ she prayed.

She heard a rustle behind her and turned around to find Enjolras lighting a candle. The bruises on his body had nearly all faded except for a few yellow strikes along his legs. The bandage that once wrapped around his entire torso had now been reduced to a small patch at his right side. She admired the lines of his body, the angled cuts of muscle that shifted as he moved his back. The hardened, defined lines of his stomach and chest were terrifying, especially when he would hold her down as she clawed on his skin and fought against him. It was by observing Enjolras that she learned how the body can bend and be sculpted by light.

She then noticed the leather cross belt in his right hand.

The sight of his lean muscled body with a belt in his hand was a foreboding sign. When he fixed his fierce eyes on her, she anxiously wondered if she was in over her head. Had not seeing him for the past few weeks made her forget just how strong he was? Did the sight of him helpless and injured in bed make her forget how he has made her feel pain that she never felt before? Did she not remember this was a man with so much anger and frustration with the world, a man who has been preparing himself for death that he reveled in it?

He took a gulp from a cup of stale water on the desk.

Eponine asked, "Why are you—"

The cup flung towards her head and shattered behind her, and she ducked, screaming.

"Come here," he commanded.

What did she get herself into? She cautiously stood to her feet, but he added severely, "Crawl."

Eponine searched his face, wondering if he was actually serious. But then again, this was Enjolras. Of course he was serious.

She brought herself to her hands and knees and slowly crawled across the cold, hard floor. She felt humiliated and small with every tiny scrape her knee made against the ground. She stopped when she reached his feet and lifted her eyes to his.

Seizing a handful of hair, he pulled her to her feet and slapped her across the face with enough force to throw her on the bed. She held her cheek in shock, not expecting the rage so suddenly, but his face was livid.

"Do you think I forgot what you said to me?" He growled. "Asking about Marius's whereabouts in _my_ bed?"

"_I wonder if Marius is home yet"_—that statement rushed back to Eponine's mind. She had forgotten about those words and she thought he would have by now, too. She then also remembered the threat he gave afterward: _"Get off of me before I strangle you, you fucking cunt."_

"_Is that what the belt was for?"_ she fearfully asked herself.

"I'm sorry," she rasped. "You're right. I'm sorry."

A sincere rage in Enjolras was building. The more he looked at her, the more he saw the physical manifestation of his cause—she was a pathetic, impoverished girl who needed and wanted to be controlled with terror. He hated her for her weakness, but loved her for her malleability.

"Take off your ridiculous clothes."

A tiny voice within her protested as if it were shocked by his crudeness, but after a few months of this routine, she knew she couldn't keep feigning surprise. Eponine stood up and removed the men's clothing she wore when delivering messages to Cosette. Her shirt tugged at her ear when she pulled it over her head, and she slid her trousers past her hips. When she clumsily stepped out of the fabric that was pooled at her feet, she looked at him to check if he watched with approving eyes.

"Put your hands on the desk."

She turned to the table, her back to him, and leaned her hands on the edges of the desk. It slightly trembled beneath her grip that was shaking in panicked excitement.

"Enjolras, I'm—"

The leather belt spanked against her, silencing her words as she let out a cry. He struck her again and again, four times on the same spot with the belt. She stifled her tears when the burning ache set in and she wiggled her body to get sensation other than stinging pain to the area. Her entire body felt cool, but that one area was warm to the touch.

"I believe you're in no position to speak unless I ask you to," he said with an eerie calm. "You seem to forget how insolent you were by saying Marius's name in my bed, the bed in which I lay after I was beaten because of _your idiocy_."

Despite the pain Eponine felt on her skin, everything he said made her sink her shoulders in guilt.

"I'm going to whip you with this belt. You are going to stay exactly how you are, hands on the desk, feet planted on the floor. Every time you feel the leather strike your body, you're going to moan in pleasure. You are not going to run, beg for me to stop, or fight back. Every time this belt strikes you, you will moan and sigh in appreciation. In appreciation of _me_. With everything that I have worked for, I deserve some appreciation. And you're going to show me exactly how gracious you are."

The cold certainty in his voice aroused her. Even when he would rally the people with his speeches, she had to admit that his sure tone was seductive and persuasive and powerful.

The belt smacked against the flesh of her buttocks, and she instantly moaned and gasped, pressing her fingers into the hard wooden desk. When the belt came down hard a second time, its sharp leather slashing her soft skin, she found she didn't have to force any reaction. With every spank of the belt, a tightness in her womb coiled and begged for gratifying release. She wondered if that pleased him.

But her moans suddenly turned into agonizing cries as the pain became more than she had expected to bear. Her knuckles whitened from the hard grip on the table in a pleading desire for it to be over, but the excruciating belt continued beating against her.

She felt like a child being punished for stealing sweets. The embarrassment of being naked, leaning over the desk as Enjolras delivered the punishment made her cry in shame. The more she tried to suppress her tears, the harder the sobs came out.

He walked over to the desk and stood at her side. In a serious, low voice, he said, "_You _came to me. You came knowing exactly what I do. I'm going to give you pain and pleasure and everything in between, and you're going to thank me for it all. Do you understand?"

Eponine nodded her head and whispered "yes," not daring to look at him. She reduced the sobbing to silent tears.

"Now, thank me."

"Thank you," Eponine said dryly.

He lifted the belt to her lips. "Try again."

She leaned forward and kissed the belt as if her existence depended on the power wielded by Enjolras's hand. "Thank you, Enjolras."

Moving behind her and out of sight once again, Enjolras said, "Eponine, answer me this. Do you think progress can be achieved through natural development or does it require terror that will ignite change?"

She did not expect that question. She didn't even understand that question.

"I…don't understand."

"Put your nose to the desk," he directed.

She bent at the waist and pressed her face to the surface. She felt the cool air hitting between her legs as her backside was displayed for Enjolras with perfect view.

"If you were to walk in here, engage in sexual intercourse with me, and then go on your merry way, what do you think you would have learned? What inside of you would change?" He asked rhetorically. "But if I awaken in you terror and if I break you into pieces, you might actually learn something about yourself."

He slapped the belt against the side of her back. Her body shuddered under its force. She buried her head into the desk, imagining his cold smile and narrowed stare.

"It takes a little bit of torture to discover facets of yourself that have not yet been fully realized."

WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. The belt came down on her back like judgment, and she grunted against the biting leather. The heat of the crude sting burned into her skin before she felt the raised marks form on her body. They wouldn't leave scars, just a sore redness that would slowly fade.

She was panting hard, and her legs were tired and aching from the awkward position in which he forced her. She wanted to reposition her feet, but feared the consequence. Yet what hurt the most was the truth behind his words. It wasn't until Enjolras that she realized she needed this. He made it feel so good and he strangely wanted her. A hidden part of her longed to be brutalized, and Enjolras had been providing that affliction without making her admit it aloud.

But tonight, he was collecting. If she wouldn't say it, then he would for her.

He stepped close, sliding his fingers into her hot slit and feeling his fingers drenched in her wetness. She closed her eyes, silently begging for him to penetrate deeper. With his other hand, he slapped her sore buttocks, making her cry out in pain.

Having one hand massaging in circles within the deep recesses of her vagina, while the other hand burned her skin with his blows, Eponine groaned with mixed emotions. The definitions between pain and pleasure were quickly blurred, and the sensations were overwhelming.

"I wonder how close to death I have to bring you before you realize just how sick you are."

Eponine crushed her head into the desk, her eyes squeezed shut. Dimmed and desperate, she whispered, "Enjolras, please…please just stop talking."

He didn't. "It took Andre beating me unconscious to realize you must be so sick to be addicted to this pain. No wonder Marius could never love you. I don't think anyone can."

He didn't believe that. But to watch her expression sink further and further into torment was an extraordinary sight. It made him want to comfort her until she crashed into an oblivion of sexual release, screaming his name. If he broke her, he could save her, and he loved witnessing it happen night after night.

She tensed around his fingers, and he spread her juices around her clit. With his fingers covered in her, he brought them to her mouth.

"Tell me what it tastes like."

Enjolras slid his fingers into her mouth and watched her suck the sticky wetness from him. He wanted to take a handful of her juices and smear it across her face, debase her with her own pleasure.

"It tastes…" Eponine began. "It takes like shame."

Enjolras pushed her hair to the side, ready to whip the belt along her upper back, but then he noticed something peculiar that he didn't catch earlier. There was a red mark on her neck, just below her ear, that was not from him.

He stared at it for several quiet seconds. He released his hold on her and swallowed hard. "Who gave that to you?"

Feeling his body no longer on her, she still felt trapped. Her mind raced with different answers, wondering which she should say. She was an excellent liar, so why was this suddenly difficult to answer?

"I must have slept on—"

"Don't lie to me."

She touched her hair, smoothing her brown mane over the spot. His fingers clenched around the belt at his side, perhaps from anger, perhaps from the anticipation of her answer.

Finally, she moved to grab her clothes. "I'm done, Enjolras. I don't have to answer to you."

He stepped on her clothing before she could lift it from the ground. "Answer me."

A fierceness suddenly overcame Eponine and she yelled, "If I hadn't returned the money to Monsieur Durand, I wouldn't have to sell myself!"

The realization had set in, and it felt like they were drowning. No wonder she hadn't been coming around for weeks—she had been whoring herself to strangers.

Under normal circumstances, the young revolutionary would have been understanding. After all, her actions are only a product of her state. When the nation does nothing to help the people, the people will do what they must. Her behavior served as an example for why there should be more basic rights to the people, so they wouldn't have to degrade themselves, and so on and so on. But these were not normal circumstances...

With the belt still in his hand, Enjolras shoved her onto the bed, throwing himself on top of her. He wrapped the belt around her neck with a fury.

"You're spreading yourself around Paris and have the audacity to expect me to fuck you?" He shouted in her face.

"I need the money!" She yelled, fighting to get back up. "I've left my parents!"

"And you had to come here to show me all the new tricks you learned!"

The sight of his face reddened and veined with savagery horrified her. She pushed his face away with her hand and turned her head, wanting to block out the sensation that she had done something horrible. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her sides, squeezing so tight that she screamed with the fear that her wrists might snap.

"I bet you loved spreading your legs open for any stranger that gave you a little attention!"

He slapped her between her legs, hearing the wet sound splash against his fingers. She gasped at the force, then writhed and bucked against his body, needing to feel any friction while she was so close to release. Sensing her arousal, Enjolras was repulsed with the thought of her orgasming against any stranger that touched her. He found her clitoris and pinched hard until she bit her lip in pain and tried to push him away.

"Enjolras, stop!"

"Whose is this?" He demanded, now massaging her clit in titillation.

"It's yours!"

"Then ask me to do it again."

She looked at him as if he were sick. Then, she quietly reprimanded herself for thinking he was anything _but_ sick when he got like this. But then why was she so aroused?

Eponine breathed uneasily. "Please, Enjolras. Please do it again."

She winced when she felt the sharp pinch of her clit once more. When he didn't let go, she twisted beneath him and desperately pleaded with her eyes for him to stop.

"Did you beg them like you're begging me now?"

"No!"

He grabbed her face and squeezed her cheeks, opening her mouth. He hovered above her and spat inside of it. She swallowed his thick wad of saliva, knowing that this was his way of saying that he was officially disgusted with her for whoring herself.

"Enjolras," she said softly. "Why can't you have mercy? Why are you able look at the streetwalkers and tip your hat to them, but you can't do the same for me?"

Tightening the belt around her neck, he answered, "Because you don't want me to."

With that, he jerked on the belt, twisting it around his knuckles as it tightened. He spread her legs and shoved himself into her and roughly humped against her squirming body. He was careful to watch her expression, knowing when to loosen the tautness. But before she was pushed to her limit, he salivated over her struggle to breathe.

He licked the rim of her open mouth before possessively kissing her hard. She loved when he kissed her this way, as if she truly did belong to him. He loosened the belt around her neck and bucked wildly against her, reveling in the thought that he could kill her if he wanted to.

He pushed her knees to her chest and smashed into her with powerful, violent thrusts. He could feel her body tightening around him, her hands clawing into the mattress. She begged him to go harder until she practically felt his reach slamming into her cervix.

"Sometimes, I just want to break you with my hands," Enjolras growled, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession.

And that was what did it. That admittance sent her into a series of spasms beneath his form, and she felt him spurt his load of ejaculate into her. They both cried out in animalistic passion, wishing this euphoria would never end. They milked each other of their orgasm: Eponine, from the thrall of his violence. And Enjolras, from her desire to receive it.

Coming for the second time, he fell into a sloppy mess above her. His mouth was swollen and his face was flushed. He was sleep-deprived and exhausted. But when he felt her body begin to shake with sobs beneath him, he slickly pulled out of her and turned away to sit at the foot of his bed. Eyes closed, he rubbed his temple as she cried in jagged breaths, trying to force herself to stop but failing.

Not saying a word, he grabbed a rag and roughly wiped his penis before searching for his clothes. He didn't acknowledge her lament. He didn't want to think about any of what just happened. He hurriedly put on his clothes with a blank face.

"Enjolras…" Her voice was husk in her sighs.

Hesitating at first, he finally looked at her.

"What's wrong with me?" She seemed crazed. "Why was I made so wrong?"

It almost appeared like he was going to respond. There was a hint of sympathy in his expression, as if he might attempt to give her a comforting word or two. But he turned away again and threw a white shirt over his head. He grabbed any waistcoat he could find and buttoned quickly. He threw on his trousers without care, his shirt untucked in the back and looking disheveled.

"I'm going for a walk," he muttered as he grabbed his coat on the way out the door.

The next time she would see Enjolras would be on the stairwell leading to the café. He would be entering as she was exiting, and they would both pass each other without an acknowledging glance.

* * *

**Additional Notes**: Yes, yes, I know, there's _so_ much sex in this story—sorry! *cringe*

But in my mind, if this was how their relationship started, it would take some time before it can transform into something more (if it even does).

Thanks so much for reading! Chapter 5 should be uploaded in the next few days, hopefully. Reviews are appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

This little chapter is Eponine-centric.

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"I'm not going to touch you when you probably just had another man's cock in your mouth."

That's what Enjolras said five days ago when Eponine crept into his room only to be turned away. So imagine her surprise when he made a point to press his hard chest against her small back as he reached around her body to the counter at Le Café Musain.

They were alone in the backroom. It was midday, the slow hour. Eponine had been leaning forward on the counter, facing the opposite direction of the room, as she drank some water and waited for Marius. She jumped when she felt Enjolras's body touch hers, his chest lingering against her back, as he reached around her to grab the cup of tea from the counter that had been sitting there for an hour now.

When the warmth of his body drifted away, she turned around to face him. He didn't move his feet, but straightened his posture, leaving a few inches of space between them.

"I thought you didn't want to touch me," she said bitterly, because she's been angry at him ever since he rejected her.

She knew he would be repulsed and enraged at the discovery that she had been sleeping for money, but she didn't expect that he would cease all nightly contact with her. He looked so scornful that night when he told her he would never touch her as long as other men had their turn with her—or as he so eloquently put it, "turned what was mine into a smutbag." She expected him to scream or beat her, but no, he kicked her out. He even made a point of saying that there was no point in hitting her because she would take pleasure in it anyway, and then he shut the door in her face.

Something genuine within her felt hurt when he ended it. It wasn't just the hurt one feels when a pleasure is taken away, but something sincere and vulnerable within her felt pain. She couldn't place what it was, but all she knew was that the pain quickly transformed into anger when he spent the next five days glaring at her. She was used to him ignoring her, pretending she wasn't around, kicking her out of the backroom with indifference—all of that she was accustomed to because it was Enjolras. That's what he did. But now, to look up from wherever she was and see him narrowing his eyes at her as if she were morally reprehensible, as if _he_ had any authority to judge—_that_ she could not handle. It infuriated her.

"Are you always prone to drinking stale tea?" She called him out on his ridiculous excuse to be close to her, and it felt good.

Having been caught and unbothered by it, he didn't waste time getting to the point. "Go back to stealing and forget prostitution."

She raised an eyebrow, stunned by his suggestion. Not by his suggestion to be a thief, but by offering a suggestion at all.

"I do both."

He scoffed and took another sip. "You must not be very good at it."

She didn't know exactly what he meant by "it," but she scowled anyway. "Do you know how unfair you're being to me, Enjolras?"

There was a greedy gleam in his eye when he leaned forward again to place the cup back on the counter. She swallowed slowly when she felt his pelvis press against her stomach, the heat of his body radiating against her. She lowered her eyes to the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat, then back to his mouth. Hearing the clink of the cup settle on the counter, she nervously grinded her spine into the counter to pull away, but he only angled into her with more pressure and tilted his head to her height, staring intensely at her.

His voice was like iron, strong and unbending, as he demanded, "Stop whoring yourself."

He was so close. She felt his hot breath on her, smelled the herbs from the cold tea. Her lips parted a fraction when she noticed he was staring at her mouth, and for an anxious second, she thought he might kiss her.

There was a noise behind him, and they both jerked to find Grantaire at the doorway. The drunkard lowered his bottle of wine from his lips and observed with a curiosity that filled the room with silent tension.

No one said a word for a few seconds until Enjolras cleared his throat and muttered, "For the last time, I don't know where Marius is. Stop asking me."

He stepped away from her, tugging at his already loose tie, and moved to the table where his papers and books had been scattered.

It was easy for Eponine to follow a lie. "Are you sure, M. Enjolras? He said he would be here all day." She looked at Grantaire. "Have _you_ seen him?"

Grantaire continued to eye her with a playful squint. It was obvious he didn't believe them, but he wasn't clear on what he just witnessed either.

"No," he answered. "But do you want to play cards while you wait for him?"

It took a while for Eponine to register what he said until she noticed the deck of old cards shifting in his hands.

"Yeah…yeah, sure." She nodded, distracted by her own thoughts.

By the time the two of them had sat down at a table and Grantaire shuffled and dealt the cards, Eponine found a little courage to peek at her side to where Enjolras was sitting, but he was already gone.

* * *

It was not Enjolras on the platform, but Marius, only Marius who delivered a speech about distinctions within systems of government. Eponine crossed her arms as she stood on the street at the back of crowd. He looked like a gallant knight, a wise sage, and a respectable king all rolled into one, and she couldn't take her eyes off of him.

"You might want to move back."

She glanced towards the voice and found Courfeyrac gesturing her to step off the road. She followed where he directed her and moved against a wall across the street from where Marius gave his speech.

"Carriages are coming through and they're willing to stomp on anyone these days," he explained.

She nodded her head in appreciation with her focus still fixed on Marius.

"You're quite the supporter of the cause," he continued with a lopsided smile. "You sit in on nearly every meeting and listen to almost every rally."

"With such charming men like you at the lead, how can anyone resist?"

A warm-hearted man like Courfeyrac deserved her full attention, and she finally looked away from Marius. Courfeyrac had one of those genuine grins that curved up across his cheeks and crinkled his eyes. Eponine thought that if she had never known Marius, she could easily be taken with that smile.

"Can you explain to me something. You all speak about revolution and change and igniting a fire within the people, but when does it actually begin?"

"It's already begun," he answered. "It's been brewing since this country has fallen right back to the archaism of monarchal sovereign."

She rolled her eyes at her unfamiliarity with the last few words. "You're an educated man, M. Courfeyrac. But do you _really_ think the rest of the people can overcome their ignorance?"

"The people recognized their own power in 1789. No one has forgotten that."

Eponine pursed her lips at his words, not quite believing him but wanting to. To her, these young men were foolish believers. They believed they were at the dawn of a new day, but in fact, they were just going to be shot down one by one, including Marius. She bit her lip and squeezed her arms around herself more securely.

She saw Enjolras standing only several feet away. He was silently mouthing the words that Marius was saying on the stage. She gestured at the Chief with her chin and said, "And what about him?"

Courfeyrac looked in the direction she was staring. "And he will lead the way."

"Is he not a little…" she tried to find an accurate, but inoffensive word.

"Any man who sacrifices his life for a collective is admirable, defiant, and a little mad. I think we all are."

"_A little?"_ she scoffed to herself.

The two continued to exchange pleasantries—talking about the weather, her sister and brothers, his hometown—until it was time for Courfeyrac to pass out pamphlets as the speech was nearing its end. He excused himself, and she brought her curious attention back to Enjolras. He was still mouthing the words to Marius's speech and listening closely. He would occasionally look up at the sky as if he were assessing the words and then shake his head in disappointment.

She had been thinking about their last encounter at the café, wondering if he would have kissed her had Grantaire not interrupted. She tried recreating the situation—putting herself alone with him, standing near him—but he ignored her every attempt and then glared when she was at a distance. Perhaps he didn't want to take the risk of being caught again. Or perhaps this was his way of punishing her for refusing to stop soliciting herself.

Eponine moved closer to Enjolras and leaned against the wall beside him. If he noticed her presence, he didn't acknowledge it.

"I assume you wrote the speech and you're evaluating how it sounds?"

His lips stopped moving and his shoulders tightened. The first two buttons of his collar were undone, and she thought about how she liked it that way.

She tried to convince herself that this would be her last attempt at conversation unless he gave any indication that he might be still interested in continuing their…thing. If he didn't, then she was done with him for good. But if he did, then they can go right back to ignoring each other in public and continuing their deranged dalliances in private. But she needed to know.

"Are you done with me?" She finally asked in a low voice, feeling her heels scrape against the wall.

She counted eighteen seconds before realizing that he wasn't going to answer.

"It doesn't change anything. It just means…I'm employed. Self-employed." She knew this conversation was awkward for both of them. To be discussing this in the crowded daylight.

His eyes followed a carriage that hastily trotted by.

"Not all of us have the good fortune to become lawyers only to squander it for an idea."

He jerked his head sharply to her. She knew that would do it.

"Do you think differently of me now?"

"I think nothing of you," he responded blankly.

But she sensed his anger from the tightness in his jaw. She sighed and took a few steps away.

They both turned their attention back at Marius. It was a marvelous speech. The crowd was engaged and enthused, shouting supporting remarks throughout. When she witnessed the crowd's cheers, a part of her felt hopeful that maybe a change was indeed possible. Maybe the young men could actually spark a fire that inspired the citizens to take arms, and maybe that meant Marius wouldn't be charging headfirst to his death.

A horse's neigh hollered in her ear. Just as she looked to see a carriage speeding in her direction with no indication of slowing down, she was yanked backwards by the collar of her dress only in time to see the carriage go by. "Move, you street rat!" A man shouted as it passed.

She turned her head to find Enjolras behind her with an irritated expression. He released her collar and rolled his eyes before bringing his focus back to the speech. Eponine swallowed uneasily and fixed the material around her neck that had bunched from his grasp. She stepped further away from the street to avoid another mishap.

When she brought her arm down to her side, she felt it bump against Enjolras. Too aware of its location, she felt like her arm was growing hotter and hotter the longer it rested beside him. She waited for him to step away or nonchalantly cross his arms, do anything to shift his arm apart from hers. Maybe he didn't feel it, but he didn't move away and neither did she.

"—as a virtuous citizen who does not turn his back on the people!" Marius continued from the stage.

The sky was a swirl of blue and pink as the sun was setting, and black birds scattered and dotted in the air like punctuation. Eponine stared at their fleeting bodies bury into the distance before she asked again, "Are you done with me?"

"Are you done whoring yourself?" His reply was quick, as if he knew the question was coming.

"It's not even every night. It's only when I—"

The thunder of Enjolras's clapping hands broke through as the crowd cheered at Marius's finished speech. He shifted away from the wall to find his comrades, and Eponine grunted as she watched their figures make their way to the café.

She didn't consider herself a stubborn person, but it's not as if she could allow herself to starve. Yes, he was correct from the beginning that she was nothing but a worthless whore, but he still wanted her then. So why not now? It didn't make any sense. All she knew was that she truly was a nobody, and the one person who could make that fact feel good for brief moments at a time had now washed his hands of her.

Eponine trailed after the men slowly, kicking rocks on the way to café.

* * *

The men's good cheer from the rally was carried on into the night, filling the café with energy as they tossed wine and discussed the glories of France. Even Enjolras was spirited without having taken a drop of wine. He never needed a drink; the mention of the Republic was enough to set him in a mood.

Enjolras lifted his glass of water when Combeferre requested he give the toast. "To the Republic, my mother!"

"To the Republic!" They cheered.

Eponine smirked when she saw Marius's face twitch in agitation when Bahorel made a critique against Napoleon. She didn't know much of anything when it came to politics, but she had seen enough to know that the former emperor was a sensitive topic for him.

"'Ponine," Grantaire drunkenly called as he seated himself beside her. "Do you never get bored watching all these men?"

"Do you?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Touché." He muttered, lifting the bottle high as he took a swig and eyed Enjolras quickly. "I'm only curious as to why you waste your days here when you clearly have been making the 'beast with two backs.'"

"Excuse me?" She didn't understand the Shakespearean reference.

Grantaire reached his finger forward and touched the red marks near her clavicle. "I've made my mark on many women myself, believe it or not."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Enjolras glance over at hearing Grantaire's words. The new marks on her were from a man who paid her three sous for a quick round in an alley somewhere on Saint-Michel a couple days ago; he kept insisting on sucking her neck.

"I do believe your drunk and speak nonsense," she muttered.

She stood up in a huff and joined Marius's side to listen to his conversation with Bahorel. He was too preoccupied to notice her, but just being near him was enough. The sound of his strong, yet caring voice soothed her, and his smile made her feel not so alone. The world was such an ugly place, but Marius made it feel slightly bearable.

Some might question why she would love a man who would never return the sentiment. Well, the heart wants what the heart wants, and love has no explanation, and any other generic saying about love that makes no sense…

She was unsure if Marius knew her true feelings or not. She often faced the temptation to throw herself on him and yell, "Marius, I'm in love with you and I can't live without you!" But she beat those feelings down into a dark pit within her, too frightened by the thought of his response. If she kept quiet, she at least had dreams.

Eponine touched the pouch at her side, reminding herself that she had one franc's worth before she would need to muse over her next robbery or customer. Prostitution was dirty and sickly and worth very little, and there was the frightening risk of pregnancy, but theft didn't feel any less dangerous. With theft, she never knew exactly how much she would gain and the consequences of prison were much more severe. Her victory with the Durands was a stroke of luck, and after the way Enjolras had condemned her for turning to prostitution, she half-heartedly wished that she never returned the money and let him suffer. How could Enjolras, the supposed voice of the people, make her feel lower than dirt for earning a living?

Her glance flickered to Enjolras who was watching her intently. After the incident with the carriage earlier today, they had been playing this game all night—catching each other's eyes, looking away, checking if the other was still watching; at least he wasn't glaring. But it seemed that Enjolras decided the game was over; he made no attempt to hide that he was staring at her as he sat at a table with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly who were distracted as they laughed heartily as Grantaire was giving a drunken performance.

He was making her uneasy. She wished he would stop blatantly staring and go back to the teasing glances. It was causing her cheeks to flush from the intensity of his gaze, and she pretended to scratch her forehead in a weak attempt to use her hand to block her face. Between the spaces of her fingers, she watched him take a slow drink of water and flash a wicked grin beneath the cup.

He rolled the base of the cup around the table three times before fully setting it down, and then he rose from his chair. "Friends, I bid you adieu."

The company said their goodnights as Enjolras lifted his coat. He gave Eponine a steady, knowing stare and exited the backdoor.

She peeked around the room, wondering if anyone had noticed. She turned to Marius who was still deep in conversation with Bahorel, and silently followed Enjolras out the door.

When she exited, she found him leaning against the wall of the building beside the café. He made a gesture with his head and traveled across the street to a darkened passageway between two buildings.

The air was cool and crisp. The tenacious stars were unforgiving as they lit the way for Eponine to follow.

"Enjolras?" she whispered into the dark as she reached the mouth of the alley.

She sensed his hands escorting her further into the passageway. She was able to detect the outline of his figure in the shadows and she reached to touch his face. Finding the curve of his jaw, Eponine leaned forward and caught his mouth in a slow kiss as he guided her backward against the wall. She ran her hands through his soft hair and pulled him deeper into her embrace, curving his neck down to her height and wrapping her arms around him.

His own arms fastened tightly around her waist, leaving no space between their bodies. The sounds of their rubbing clothes and smacking lips echoed in the enclosed area. His stubble chafed along her skin, and he pressed his knee between her thighs, parting her legs. His tongue gently searched her mouth before he squeezed his arms tighter around her body, and she breathed out a sigh that was happy and wanted.

Perhaps it was from the murkiness of the night that cloaked her, but she felt protected in this kiss that seemed as if he only wanted to pull her aside just to kiss her. It was passionate and intense without the fear that was normally associated. It was strange, but she strangely liked it as long as she didn't have to open her eyes. She felt crushed in his strong embrace and she wanted to stay feeling crushed. And briefly, she almost felt like they were normal lovers making up after a fight.

This could have continued for hours and Eponine wouldn't have minded. His hands traveled to her hair, and from habit, she waited to feel that sharp tug that would have her gasping, but it never came. Instead, his fingers merely roamed through her dirty, sweaty hair as if they were luscious brown waves, and she felt beautiful. She sighed his name into his mouth like a prayer, and his warm hands cupped her cheeks as he deepened their kiss.

But suddenly, he broke away, and her skirt was being raised over her hips.

"What…" She looked down at where his hands were bunching her skirt to her waist.

She was lifted into the air, and she instinctually wrapped her legs around him. Disappointed the kiss had ended, she watched him loosen and release his trousers to the ground, and before she could even process what was happening, he dropped her onto his hard manhood, impaling her in one thrust.

Enjolras buried his face into her nape and roughly penetrated her body, which was supported against the wall and in his grasp. She was shaken by how quickly the atmosphere had changed and tried to coax him back into a kiss.

He purposefully avoided her lips and bucked in jerky, rough rhythm. The safety that she had felt only a minute ago was replaced with cold uncertainty as her body uncomfortably shook with every thrust. Inhaling sharp, small breaths, Eponine was unable to move her legs that were tightly pinned in his arms, and he refused to kiss her. She rested her hands on his chest and tried to peer into his eyes, but all she could see was the darkness of night.

His breath was heavy and jagged against her ear as he ignored her every attempt to move her body in rhythm with his. Instead, he held her in place as if she were simply part of the alley as he fucked her in hard, deep strokes.

It didn't take him long. A few more thrusts and he groaned in release.

Just as quickly as it started, it ended. He dropped her so ungracefully that she stumbled forward and fell on the wet ground. She could feel his ejaculate dripping down her inner thighs, and she wasn't even aware when he had finished. She looked up in confusion, pushing back her mass of hair and touching her lips still swollen and tingling from their kiss. All she heard was some shuffling clothes and the clinking sounds of metal hitting the floor.

"Enjolras?" She called out as he turned and exited the alleyway.

She reached forward to touch whatever he dropped in front of her. Feeling their circular shape and cool hardness, she knew immediately what they were, but didn't want to believe it. She collected the items from the ground and carried them out of the alley into the light. In her hands she counted twelve sous.

Eponine stared into her palms, replaying what had just happened with shock and anger. It was clear he wanted to prove a point. To make her feel low and dirty. Maybe even punished. To play nice with her, then rip it all away with indifference because he could. And every time the scene ended in her mind, the message was very clear: she was just a whore.


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Thank you for the reviews! I truly, truly appreciate any feedback you have to offer.

This is a little chappie, but Chapter 7 is quite long and shouldn't take too much further to be finished. Happy reading!

**RATING: **MA / NC-17

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"What are we waiting for?" Bahorel rose from his seat to emphasize his point. "I have spoken with the other groups, and they have agreed to take action on our ready!"

"And we are not ready!" Combeferre argued. "We are close, but we are not ready!"

"We have outlined the plagues that have inflicted the country under monarchal rule. The people know it! The kings are parasites and will only suck us dry the longer we wait," Bossuet chimed in.

"No! We might be the ones to ignite the spark, but the people must be the flames! We cannot bear the weight on our shoulders alone!" Another voice added.

"The height of the people's will to fight—"

"We cannot rely on false reflections of—"

"There _is_ no negotiation—"

Enjolras silently listened to the men debate. They had been enjoying each other's company for the past two hours, discussing their employments, their current mistresses, and the latest literature. But it was now time to mine the discussion of politics. The desperate frenzy within the people was growing, and all of Paris has been feeling the tension at a high these past two months. And with General Lamarque on the minds of the people, Les Amis de l'ABC had been in close contact with other like-minded groups who were ready to take arms.

They might argue about exactly when or how a revolution would start, but they all believed it was fast approaching.

* * *

Enjolras was not too far from his home. With hands firmly in his coat pockets, he mused over the plans for a revolution. If it weren't for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he would have urged his friends to start one now. No need to wait for a perfect time to ignite the people's spirit; _they_ would be the spark to set France into a fiery change. But Combeferre had good points. The logic behind a revolution must first be settled in the minds of the citizens. If he and his friends were going to die for their cause, they needed their beliefs to be instilled in the people even after their demise.

_If they were going to die_…

He chuckled dryly. If? Of course they would die. And he would be the one to lead them…

A cackled laughter echoed from the block ahead. Three women loitered near the darkness of an alley, and their laughter rang as some men wandered by with the flirtation babblings of a drunk. The women's hungers were evident in their sweet solicitations made to the passing men, and Enjolras felt a hardened determination to insurrect the monarch that did nothing to help these people. The fog was thick tonight and seemed to rise from the ground at the women's feet, and their angled faces contoured under the slant of the moon.

It was the end of the week, which meant the streets were busy with whores and alcoholics, men stumbling home after indulging too long in their drinks, and wives shouting from within their houses once the men staggered home. The lives of the impoverished were predictable, but never boring.

_No, never boring,_ Enjolras thought in slow astonishment when he discovered that one of the three women at the alley was Eponine. The wisps of fog parted the closer he approached, and he recognized her thick hair, then the small curve of her mouth that twitched into a smile as one of the other women made a joke.

The two other women were well-decorated for whores, which meant they must have been from a local brothel who took their work to the street or they had the assistance of an agent procuring clientele. Eponine wore no powder or rouge. She was dressed in her brown skirt and white shirt that he has seen her in dozens of times before. She looked awkward beside the two women, as she squatted down near the wall while the other two took a few steps out into the street and vocalized their advertisements.

Enjolras rolled his tongue across his inner cheek and stalked forward.

As he neared the women, he studied Eponine's face carefully when she noticed his approach. Several different expressions flashed through her before she settled on a combination of rage and humiliation. She hadn't forgotten how he dropped her in an alley to scrape the ground for twelve sous, and she had been holding onto her resentment ever since.

"Care for a little fun?" One of the prostitutes smiled, hands on her hips and leaning forward into him.

"A little? I think he's got more than a _little_ fun on him." The other teased.

Enjolras normally would have turned his head in embarrassment and kept walking, but his desire to debase Eponine eclipsed his own fluster. He stared at the young brunette who stayed squatted on the ground, her back against the mud-stained wall, and he narrowed his eyes at her refusal to look at him. He held his gaze, waiting for her to speak, but she didn't.

"And what about you?" He kicked his boot against her knee.

She bit her lip and tightened her jaw, as if to keep from shouting her fury. In the ghostly light, her eyes reflected an intense loathing, and Enjolras flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin. He's felt nothing but pure hostility towards her these past few days and was amused to see she returned the sentiment.

Seeing his interest in Eponine, the two women sighed and turned their attention to passing men, coaxing them with pursed lips and heaving breasts. Enjolras stared at Eponine longer than he needed to before speaking.

"Am I not your usual clientele? A girl these days cannot afford to be selective."

She kept her focus on a pile of dirt by his feet, but her face reddened a brighter shade of crimson with every second he stood in front of her.

"Your youthful beauty may afford you to play coy, but age will catch up, especially as the streets harden you. You might as well start practicing your solicitation better."

"Go. Away." She huffed out.

"I'm an interested buyer. Stand up, let me see what I would be paying for." He took a step back as if he were speculating her.

When she didn't respond, Enjolras turned and saw a drunken man stumbling against the wall heading in their direction. The man stopped once Enjolras touched his shoulder and said, "What do you think about this one? Would you care for a round with her?" and gestured to Eponine with his thumb.

The drunkard squinted at her up and down before nodding his head. Eponine never felt smaller than now, sitting on the floor while Enjolras and a stranger looked down at her and talked about her as if she wasn't even there or worth the decency of discretion. She was no high-class woman accustomed to being treated with manners, but hearing them talk so openly about her put a shameful blush to her cheeks as she buried her chin in her wrists.

"Her hips aren't soft, but her bosom is full. I would take her if you're not," the man gruffed.

"She's yours. I've had her once before."

"Was she worth it?"

"Every sou."

Eponine's chest felt like it was on fire. She finally looked at Enjolras with every ounce of hatred that her body could muster, and his smirk collapsed into his own cold stare. He shook the man's hand, still not taking his eyes off of her.

He ducked his head, glaring beneath his brow. "Goodnight, Eponine."

Enjolras dug his hands back into his coat pockets and walked off, feeling the scorn of her stare burning into his back.

For a quick moment, he wondered if Eponine had ended up taking that man. He wondered how many men she had that night or how many she's been with this entire month. It was repulsive. _She_ was repulsive. A piece of green glass crushed under his boot, and he broke out of his thoughts and leveled his gaze down the road to his apartment.

He opened the door to his room and kicked it shut behind him. The chilled breeze had brushed open the window, and he jammed the panes back shut with his palms. He lit a couple candles around the room, just enough to shed some light in a few dark spaces.

As he removed his coat, he heard footsteps charging fast up the stairs, slapping against the hard wood with a vengeance. He sighed, already recognizing the sloppy steps from her muddy, torn shoes, and he threw his coat in the corner.

The door slammed open. Eponine's hair was slicked back as if she had been running against the force of the wind. She clumsily leaned against the door, shutting it closed, and wiped the sweat from her face with her wrist. Her fingers were shaking with the adrenaline that pumped through her body as she sprinted there, and the energy was still coursing through her veins. She exhaled a sharp breath of air from her nostrils and watched him straighten his form as he faced her.

"Did you make a good profit tonight?" He drawled, eyes roaming from her muddy shoes to her wind-blown hair.

"I wasn't working tonight. I was keeping Amie and Estelle company." Her voice was strangely calm, and she knew that threw him off by the way he continued studying her.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Well, I had a customer lined up for you. I hope you didn't turn him away."

"I told him to meet me on a day I _would_ be working," she lied, only to see his expression. There was just the slightest twitch in his left eyebrow.

After removing his waistcoat, Enjolras rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, tugging them jaggedly up his arm.

She knew he only rolled his sleeves when he anticipated a struggle. "You think I came here to fight you?"

"Don't insult my intelligence with such a stupid question."

"Do you think you gave me a reason to fight you?"

He huffed a breath of laughter. "I never do. You just like to fight me."

There was only _some_ truth in that. It was true that Enjolras wasn't the only one with rage. She had it in herself, too, but it usually sprang out in fiery bursts and then transformed into self-loathing. But after the way he has been judging her beyond the confines of the bedroom, the anger has been building for days and she wanted nothing more than to take that pen on the desk and stab him in the neck.

Her eyes must have flashed to the pen because his did, too. A drawn out smile crept his face as if he were thinking that she was too predictable.

There was a four second pause. Then Eponine lunged at him. Charged across the space of the room. He grabbed her wrists, but she yanked them away before he could secure a grip, and she smacked him in the face, then the throat. She heard him cough before he snatched her wrists and held them tight. With her arms restrained, she kicked the rough heel of her foot against his knee. There was a faint cracking sound, but not nearly as loud as she wanted to hear. While in the throes of all this, she quietly thanked her father who unknowingly taught her what to do with a body.

But despite her fight and surging adrenaline, his height and build got the better of her. It always did. He dug his grip into her small shoulders and tackled her to the floor where she fought against his weight in every way. He didn't take much of an offensive; he mainly focused on restraining her into submission and holding her squirming body down with his own. They became a pile of grunts and deep breaths and hisses, expanding lungs and flexed tendons, and every space that Enjolras's hands touched on her body felt like it was on fire.

She ripped the collar of his shirt when she clawed his neck, leaving three long scratches down his throat. He seethed at the sting and grabbed her wrists, pinning them beside her head. She could feel his heart pounding furiously against her chest while his hard arousal pressed into her leg. She wasn't surprised by it; this was foreplay to him.

"Here's what's going to happen," Enjolras's voice was mostly hushed air. "You're going to stop whoring yourself. And then you're going to—"

She cut him off with a knee to his testicles. With the way she was angled, she didn't get much force, but there was enough impact for him to release his grip on her wrist. She slapped him across the face and used his moment of weakness to squirm from under him and grab a letter opener on the desk. She jumped on top of stomach, already pained from the previous injury, and knocked the air out of him.

The letter opener went slashing down at his neck, but he grabbed her hands again and flung her body to the side. While she was back on the ground, he spit on the floor and fought the nausea that came with the knee to the groin, only thankful that she didn't get much momentum in her knee attack.

She leapt back on top of him and slammed the metal end of the letter opener down into his upper shoulder. She dragged the blade an inch across his skin, pressing deeper into him as it traveled. His mouth pulled back over his clenched teeth, and he hollered an animal sound and backhanded her across the face. She cried out at the burning blow, her vision blurred as she staggered to her feet and rubbed her sore cheek. Enjolras hauled himself up with a dumbfounded expression that she _actually_ stabbed him. It didn't penetrate far, but he hissed at the movement of his shoulder and snapped the letter opener in two at where the handle met the blade and threw the pieces to the ground.

Eponine shivered at the raving look on his face. Sweat beading his forehead, redness streaked across his cheeks, pupils dilated. Her adrenaline was waning, and she hadn't realized she was stepping backwards until she hit the wall behind her. He stalked forward with predatory slowness, blood seeping onto his clothes at the shoulder, and he came just a few inches from her. Both were breathless and haggard, and her heart sped up with the uncertainty of what he was going to do. She never fought him this hard, and the thought of his retaliation terrified her.

"Stay away from me…" Her voice sounded so small when she heard it.

"You can be more convincing than that." Enjolras stared at her mouth with his eyes glazed over in lust. "Try screaming."

His hands clutched the front of her shirt and he jerked her body into his, sending his mouth clashing against hers. She struggled to pull away, but he held the back of her head and kissed her fiercely. She tried to scream out, but he only swallowed the sound. Desperate, she dug her finger into his fresh wound, tearing into the flesh, her finger sliding through the blood as she widened the slash. The green veins on his face pulsated as he yelled out so loud that she was sure someone would check to see if a man had been murdered. He grabbed her shirt again and pulled her several inches from the wall before slamming her body back into it, and she yelped at the dizzying impact. She yelled again when he twisted her wrist and buried her into the wall with his crushing body, his hot breath suffocating her as they fought for oxygen.

But Eponine could have sworn the pain he felt only aroused him more in his desire to subdue her. She wondered if they only reacted this way to each other or if any pain got them like this. Like monsters attacking each other, inflicting as many wounds on the other's body and mind. Like lonely, soulless beasts only wanting to satisfy the carnal pleasure of the flesh that later left them as shameful as Adam and Eve hiding from the face of God, the faces of the entire world.

They were the only ones who knew this side of the other existed, and she used to wonder if that meant something.

Between the gnashing teeth and swollen lips, Enjolras breathed out, "You're going to stop this nonsense."

She assumed he meant prostitution, but she was only half-attentive as she thrashed against him to break free.

"Do you hear me? Say yes," he snarled.

Still nothing from her.

With a growl, he slammed both fists into the wall, punching against the stone at each side of her head. He punched again and again and again until his knuckles were raw, and she shrieked and squeezed her eyes shut, fearing that he might actually use that same force against her face, which she knew was the threat he wanted to convey.

Grunting in frustration, he dug his bleeding knuckles into his pockets and ripped out several coins that scattered across the floor when he flung them to her feet. He stepped back, wiping some spittle from his swollen mouth, and stared at her like he was waiting for something.

Eponine grabbed the wall for support, no longer feeling his body propping her up. "Wh-what?" She rasped, disoriented at the sudden quiet.

"Go on then, service me. Do what you do." His voice was hoarse and shaking with anger. Blood smeared across his cheek as he tried to wipe the sweat from his face with his torn knuckles.

They were panting heavily, both trying to catch their breaths but too excited to keep their hearts beating a normal pace. Her fingers rubbed the wrinkled material of her skirt as she stared wide-eyed at his trembling body that struggled to stay still.

She felt disgusted for being aroused at the sight of him, for witnessing how _she_ got him like this as if it were something to be proud of. But she was indeed proud of herself; she felt desired and wanted. And she wanted him just as much as he wanted her at this moment, but she hesitated under these circumstances. She whored herself near the local brothels just a couple nights of the week, finding a few men who would be interested in paying far less than for women in the brothels. It didn't make her a _bad_ person. And she believed that, except when Enjolras stared at her with that cold look as if she were tarnished. So to sleep with him under the categories of "servicing" felt…wrong?

He broke the silence. "Then I'll just take it."

Before she could react, he flung her onto the bed. Eponine jumped up, but he tackled her back down, his knees sinking into the mattress as he straddled her. She stared at the curve of his nose as he sprawled his body over hers. Her skirt was being bunched at her waist, and she felt that familiar hardness opening her sex and filling her. She smacked the side of his face, which he then buried into her neck where she could hear every ragged breath he released in rhythm with his thrusts. She brought her hands between the thin space of their bodies and pushed against his chest, trying to shove him off, but it was like pushing against a boulder. And the more she pushed, the rougher he penetrated her and the louder he grunted.

Eponine closed her eyes. The room was silent with the exception of the wet sound between her legs as he rocked into her and the uneven breaths that escaped the deepness of his throat. He clutched the back of her head, his fingers clenching and unclenching in her hair, while his other hand squeezed her hip in place. She tried again to squirm away, but her movements only caused more friction and tightness that had Enjolras moaning, his hot breath puffing by her ear. He lifted his torso and stared at their meeting bodies, his shaft slick and glistened with her arousal.

With his weight off of her, she leapt up to attack him once again, but he slapped her face and growled, "Stay down."

It split her lip and she tasted her metallic blood. The stinging pain in her cheek brought her to tears as she accepted submission and buried the pain against his pillow. While she felt his tongue trail from the corner of her mouth to the middle of her cheek to taste her salty tears, she stared at the stains of his blood that had rubbed onto her clothes. She would have to throw this shirt away, she thought dimly.

Even though she knew why she kept coming back to him, she didn't quite _understand_ it. She wondered if Enjolras even fully understood why he did this. Was this worth the misery of the aftermath? Or was life so hard and ugly to not cling onto another body the only way they knew how—with brutality?

Enjolras spread her thighs further apart and shifted his angle, hitting a knot within her with a bruising force, and she cried out, arching her back from the slamming pressure. Physically defeated and exhausted, knowing that she couldn't budge against his hard body or try to squirm away, she released a bloodcurdling scream as her last weapon. It vibrated from her raw throat like a horrifying plea, like a woman driven mad with desperation and terror. But it was swiftly choked off when his hand twisted around her neck.

He stared at her slender neck caught in the middle of her scream and he furiously rocked his body into her, digging his pelvis deep. She knew he was close. He was gasping at her ear in uneven breaths. His eyes were dilated and gone, no flecks of blue or steel gray, just hooded and glossed over. He plunged himself to the hilt, feeling the velvet walls of her vagina tighten around him. His muscles tensed under the hot flush of his skin. The erratic grunts clamored out of his mouth as he jerked a few shallow strokes, and his body locked in stillness above her. All that had feeling was his throbbing length shoved deep in her warmth that erupted a violent stream of his heavy ejaculate. The throaty groan against her ear chilled her spine as Eponine felt him twitching inside of her, filling her with his seed. He dug himself a little further, needing to bury his load as far into her as he could, to coat her depths with the primal scent and feel of him.

They exchanged a few deep breaths. He sniffed and wiped his sweaty forehead against his wrist, then quickly withdrew from her and stood up from the bed, fixing his trousers. He removed his shirt with a swift pull over the head and doused a towel in water before pressing it to the slash in his shoulder. Eponine lay frozen, staring at his back as he rummaged through an open desk drawer before pulling out some bandages.

This wasn't the first time he forced himself onto her, and she sometimes wondered if it was ever really considered "forced" if a large part of her wanted it. Sometimes it was part of their game, and other times it wasn't; they stopped trying to define the line early on until every time just felt sickening and paralyzing.

"There's more money in the chest," Enjolras murmured, then winced at the pressure he applied to his shoulder.

Despite all he had just done, she was most stunned by his words. To toss her out with a handful of coins as if this were a business transaction from the beginning. Her body was unsure whether to cry in self-disgust or fight him again. "Who gives you the right to treat me this way?"

"You do," he answered so quickly.

"That's not fair. You have no right to treat—"

"Treat you like a streetwalker?" He turned around with an icy stare. "It's acceptable for you to be a bunter, just as long as you're not treated like one?"

She had to remind herself not to get twisted in his words. Enjolras had this way of speaking that would leave her apologizing and chastising herself at the end of the conversation no matter how strong she stood her ground in the beginning, even if his argument didn't make any sense.

"_You_ have no right to treat me like one," she stated more definitively.

He gave a scornful laugh. "I've spit on you, spanked you, whipped you, strangled you, beat you, fucked your throat. I've thrown you headfirst into a wall. I've called you every vulgar and obscene name there is to call you. I've spilt myself in you dozens of times, and yet you claim to be insulted because I now _pay_ you after the fact?"

"It just…it feels wrong. It feels worse than normal…when you do…like judging me. I thought we would never judge each other outside of what we did in private. Everything feels so blurred now. The boundaries are gone—"

"Then stop spreading yourself to all of Paris like a disease."

Seven heartbeats passed between them before Eponine looked away. She ran her tongue over her sore lip and heard him scoff in disbelief, then bang the desk drawer shut. He swayed forward and seethed out, "Just take the money and get the hell out of my sight."

She dropped her shoulders at the harshness of his words and gazed at the coins on the floor, all scattered in several directions and glinting in the candles' refracting light. She looked back at Enjolras who was pressing the towel onto his torn, swollen knuckles. He glared at the floor, not realizing that the small towel was too saturated in water and blood to collect any more fluid, and was now only smearing more blood on his skin. When he finally looked down at his hands, he started coiling the bandages tightly around his knuckles with swift, agitated motions until he made a sound that resembled both a sigh and a growl and dropped the bandages on the desk in aggravation.

"Fine," he muttered to no one in particular, throwing the bloody towel on the floor. "Like I give a damn."

He grabbed a new shirt, peppering it with red fingerprints as he tossed it over his head. Eponine watched him kick on his boots and grab a coat, every movement of his body tense and angry. He slammed the door as he left, and the vibrations unjammed the window panes, releasing in a cool gush of air that flooded the room, and she felt like she couldn't breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: **

Hello! I wanted to leave you with a longer chapter since I won't be updating for a while; I will be out of the country for a month or so. But no worries, I have plans to finish this story through until the end, and there's still so much to be done! And I will try to write even while I'm away, so hopefully, I won't have to wait an entire month to update. (And if I can finish the next chapter before I book out of the country, I'll be sure to upload it.)

Thank you very, very much for reading. And please don't forget to share your thoughts! All feedback is appreciated.

This chapter includes much head canon for Eponine.

**Rated: **MA / NC-17

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Enjolras was no fool. He would face his obstacles using different tactics until he discovered the most effective method to demolish his opponent. In regard to planning a revolution, there were different outlets he and his comrades accessed, but Enjolras decided on one certain mentality to achieve his end: brute terror.

Eponine had learned this about him from the beginning, through the hours of sitting in on their meetings and listening to their rallies. She would be chilled and mesmerized by the ferocity in his voice as he narrowed in on the perversions of the government and the ways to reconstruct its policies. She didn't understand most of his rhetoric nor did she care to learn, but the manner in which he charged his way into the spirits of the citizens was frightening because he did it so naturally. Watching him enthrall the masses with his words verified his magnetism and vigor. He fought for freedom and human rights with the uncompromising hand of terror, and the passion that overtook him was incredibly hypnotic.

But having known this about him, Eponine was nervous to enter the café. She avoided the place all day yesterday because she couldn't face him after what they had done the night earlier. She never stabbed a man before, and although he seemed less bothered by the letter opener than by her outright defiance, she was still apprehensive, all that fight in her now gone. He had been crucifying her ever since he felt personally slighted by her refusal to end her prostitution, and she knew this past incident would only add more fuel to his fire. Nothing felt more terrible than being the focus of his scorn, and Eponine had been learning firsthand over these past several days just how relentlessly cruel he could be when provoked.

She slipped into the backroom of the café during the slow hour, first checking for Marius's presence by habit. Seeing he was nowhere to be found, she eyed Enjolras and Courfeyrac who appeared deep in conversation as they stood over a stack of papers spread out on a table. She took a seat in the corner and ran her gaze over Enjolras. Her attention was grabbed by the sweat settled on the hollow of his throat, and her pulse raced at the remembrance of being pushed against the wall and kissed into suffocation. Her eyes trailed from his throat to the curve of his jaw, to his parted mouth, to his stern gray eyes flecked with a light shade of blue. She watched the slow bob of his throat as he swallowed a gulp of water and handed Courfeyrac a handful of papers.

He must have sensed her deep observance because his eyes flashed to hers. She inhaled sharply and looked away, cursing the heated blush burning her cheeks. She idly thumbed through an abandoned newspaper and looked back at him. He was still talking to Courfeyrac and gesturing to the papers, with his jaw now tight and his brows furrowed in irritation. She noticed the small bandage at his shoulder that was visible under his shirt, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt hit her stomach.

But once she recovered from her fluster, her heart sped up again when Marius entered the room. She shifted in her skirt as she watched him pat Courfeyrac's back and nod his head to Enjolras. Marius was wearing the blue jacket that she loved the most; she thought it brought out the richness of his blue eyes and contrasted with his thick dark hair. She stood up and made her way closer to the men, nearing the counter to hear their conversation.

"I spoke with Combeferre this morning, and now, I'm working on the articles to send to _Le National_ to spread the word regarding the protest outside of _Le Télégramme_," Enjolras gestured towards his papers. "Those are drafts, but I'll be finished by tonight."

"What might I do to help?" Marius asked.

"Courfeyrac is reaching out to Cougourde of Aix. Perhaps you can assist him."

"I'll be meeting with a few of them tonight if you care to join me," Courfeyrac offered, gathering his belongings. "I have a few errands to complete beforehand, but I'll be meeting with them at my home around 7pm."

"I'll see you tonight then," Marius nodded as Courfeyrac headed out the door. Marius turned back to Enjolras and tilted his head when he noticed his friend's knuckles. "What happened to your hand, Enjolras?"

Eponine stopped breathing and nervously glanced at the two men. Enjolras curled his fingers into a fist and stared at his scabbed knuckles before answering, "I got into a fight."

"Durand's men?"

"No, just a nutcase who decided to jump me."

She narrowed her eyes and released a sound of indignation, which prompted Marius to look at her, and she turned away, still fuming.

Marius gestured back to Enjolras and added, "I'm sorry to hear that. The streets can be full of lunatics."

"You have no idea," Enjolras muttered, rustling his papers into a pile.

Marius fixed his sight to the brunette once more. "Eponine, I'm glad you're here. Might I ask you a favor?"

She straightened under his gaze, pretending that she didn't trip over the chair leg when she rushed from her seat. To hear him say that he was glad she was there put a goofy smile on her face that she struggled to suppress. "Yes, of course, Marius. Anything at all."

"I have a letter that needs to be sent to Cosette by tomorrow night. Would you be able to deliver it?"

Her smile faltered. She stared at his freckled cheeks and wanted to reach out and touch his face, but she took a step back and forced the upward curve of her mouth. "That would be fine."

"Thanks, Eponine. I'll meet you here tomorrow and give you the letter." Marius smiled and patted her shoulder, a gesture that meant nothing more than appreciative friendship. When he pulled away, she could still feel the warmth of his hand. Marius slid his gaze to include his comrade. "I suppose I have time to buy some wine for the meeting tonight; I should be off then. I'll let you know how it goes, Enjolras."

Eponine listened to his footsteps grow distant and she thought about the letter she would deliver to Cosette. What new dress would Cosette be wearing tomorrow, she wondered. Or what new needlework would she have completed by then? Cosette did not live an extravagant lifestyle, but how did Cosette win the affections of Marius and find a sheltered, comfortable home, while she was left on the streets to scrape for any bit of money she could get?

She looked out the window at the swirls of white clouds and the dark tree branches shattering the sky, and then faced Enjolras. He remained standing over his papers, staring at the table with a low breath escaping his nostrils. When he lifted his eyes to her, she felt that familiar heat scorch her face.

She bristled. Without the rush of adrenaline and lust, the room was quiet, and neither seemed willing to put into words what happened two nights ago. They never fought each other with such animosity before. And it was the first time that Enjolras was visibly angry after sex; he would normally stare blankly at the ceiling or rush out the door to avoid her crying, depending on her reaction. Witnessing his anger persist even after their sexual escapade ended, Eponine didn't know what to do with that constant anger. They used to have clear barriers between their private interactions and their public affairs, and he used to be pretty good at cutting off his rage the second they were done with sex because it was always just about the sex. And of course, the shame of his actions ebbed away his anger. But now, the walls were crashing down. Enjolras was adamant on butchering through her defenses until she conceded defeat and surrendered to his demands.

"What..." Eponine started to say, just needing to break the quiet. She cleared her throat at hearing how rasp she sounded. "I'm sorry about your shoulder." She rushed out the words before she could regret saying it.

He continued staring for a few seconds, and she fidgeted. A bored expression flashed over his face, and he shrugged in disinterest. She blinked, surprised by his reaction, as he started organizing his papers.

A shrug. A shrug? _A shrug?_ She had been agonizing over this moment, nervous to enter the cafe, and he _shrugs_? Even when she apologized, he still managed to make her blood boil. She hated when he did this—how he could take her from remorse to fury to pleasure to fear to any emotion in the world he wanted with just a few gestures. She wished she could purge herself of him, to not feel him seeping into her skin with each passing day.

He seated himself at the table, his pen swiftly dancing across a piece of parchment.

"I want to talk to you." She ran her tongue over her teeth, ignoring the agitation that often rose in her when she was around him.

He continued writing.

Eponine maneuvered around the table. "I said I want to tal—"

"I heard you," Enjolras replied in a flat tone, still writing.

She narrowed her eyes. "We're back to ignoring each other then?"

Keeping her focus on him for any reaction, she sat down at the table, placing herself across from his body. She examined him for any change in posture or facial expression, but he seemed engrossed in his writing. She stared at the swirls and loops of his penmanship. It looked so perfect. No matter how hard he fought for the people's freedom and for the rights of the oppressed, Eponine was always reminded of his wealthy upbringing when she looked at his flawless, proper penmanship. She often wondered why a privileged man like him would give up his fortunes to align himself with the spirit of the impoverished, but she never asked.

"I like when we ignore each other like this. As if nothing happened nights prior." Eponine stared at her lap, remembering his wild eyes when he trapped her against the wall, pummeling his fists into it. "But I'm unsure where we stand."

She thought she heard him make a noise, but when she looked up, he was still writing. He had the deep crease in his forehead that appeared whenever he was completely absorbed and focused on one of his projects.

Eponine lowered her eyes back to her hands. "I know you're angry with me, but I mainly steal for my living. I only walk the streets one or two nights when—"

"You should have no problem stopping then."

She looked up, surprised he responded, and felt encouraged to continue speaking. "You make it out as if I'm whoring myself nightly to dozens of men. Stealing is tough work, and sometimes I have to turn to prostitution as a last resort."

He lifted his pen and stared intently at the paper, deep in thought. She wasn't sure if he was reading or if he had paused to think about what she had just said. When his eyes began drifting across the page from left to right, she sighed and dragged the parchment to her side of the table, gaining his attention.

The glare on Enjolras's face showed more frustration than rage. "I don't have time for this."

He reached forward, but she lifted the paper in the air behind her back, ready to jump out of her seat if he tried to pounce on her. But he wasn't in any mood for physical exertion. He clenched his jaw and muttered something about her immaturity to which Eponine scoffed and yelled, "You're impossible! _You _are being immature. I'm trying to be reasonable and talk—"

"These articles need to be finished by tonight. I don't have time to indulge in your emotional needs. Give me that damn paper." He said "emotional" as if it were a dirty word.

"Wh—"

"Listen, I'll say this so simply that even you can understand. I do not compromise."

Angered by his petty insult, she tightened her teeth together and bit out, "You don't _compromise_? I'm not a revolution, Enjolras. Do you not know how to reason with actual peopl—"

"Right then, let's settle this." The wheels were spinning in Enjolras's mind as he looked at her with steely eyes, unyielding and harsh. "If you want to be a whore, then get on your knees and service me right now."

Her mouth fell open at his remark. Seeing she was too stunned to respond, he reached into his pocket and dropped a few coins in front of her one by one, the metal hitting the wooden surface with heavy thuds.

Eponine shook her head in disbelief. "You truly think so little of me?"

"What else am I to think of you?" His demeanor grew colder. "You want to be a whore, so there's the money. Now, get on your fucking knees and suck me off like a good whore should."

She winced at his words. It felt odd hearing his vulgarity in the daytime; that sort of talk was usually reserved for the privacy of night. "Stop it, Enjolras."

"Isn't this what you want?" He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, refusing to relent in their battle of determination. "Answer me, slut."

She flinched and jumped from her seat as if the word had physical impact, but he was quick to follow in pursuit. She turned around and took a few steps away, and she could feel his body heat radiating into her back as he stood close behind her.

"Are you embarrassed?" He continued challengingly, breathing into her ear. "Because you've been embarrassing yourself for weeks as a whore now."

Eponine couldn't find her voice to respond. She was in his line of fire and didn't know how to escape.

"Or maybe the humiliation arouses you, hmm?" His hand slowly crept under her skirt and grazed up the back of her thigh, and she gasped when he squeezed her buttocks. She felt his finger press into the crack between her legs, getting dangerously close to her warm center. "Shall I check? Are you a slut for humiliation?"

She exhaled slowly. They both knew from past experience that she would be aroused, but she didn't think that justified his current treatment. Just because she liked his roughness didn't mean he could throw money at her and use her like any whore. It confused her when she thought about it, but in a weird way, she wanted to be _his _whore, not _a _whore.

Enjolras's middle finger slid further between her legs to find her slit. Just as his finger delved into her sex, she spun around, pushing his arm away. She glared through her vision, blurred with the tears she held back. "No, Enjolras, I'm not!"

"Are you sure?" He lifted his finger that was damp with her arousal, and he smirked when he wiped his finger off with his handkerchief.

"You know I want you…" She said quietly.

The smirk dropped from his face, and he ducked his head to look at her in complete seriousness. "Well, then stop whoring yourself because it's playing you for a fool."

Looking content with the point he made, he retreated back to the table and dropped into his seat. Eponine watched him collect the coins from the table and put it back into his pocket. When his eyes flashed to hers, he scoffed and lifted his chin to gesture to the parchment in her hands. She didn't even realize she was still holding it, and she slowly returned to the chair across from his, keeping the paper close to her body as if it were a bargaining chip.

He picked up his pen and waited for her to return his parchment. Seeing she was still clutching it, he said, "Have you a sudden interest in politics? Return my paper and get out."

"First, you owe me an apology."

"Do I?"

"Yes," she said tersely. "You tried to put me in the hands of a drunkard the other night. I know you could be cruel, but I didn't think you would be so spiteful."

He gave a light chuckle. "I find you on the street, who knows how many men you've already spread yourself to that night? What is one more to a dozen?" He tried to remain impassive, but the rapping of his pen picked up a faster tempo as he resisted the urge to lunge across the table and choke the air out of her until she stopped fighting him and just conceded. He was not a patient man, and the more she resisted, the tighter he imagined his hands around her neck.

If she blinked, she would have missed the look of disgust that flickered across his face. She knew he was much angrier than he was letting on as he fluctuated between cold indifference and heated scorn. Eponine smoothed the parchment on the table in front of her, looking wary as she said, "I think I know what you're trying to do. You've never been so malicious until recently. You think if you're cold enough to me, I'll break. You think if you offer me to other men, I will feel so repulsed that I will stop with this prostitution and run to you—"

"If I recall, that's _exactly_ what you did."

Her mouth closed tight at his words, realizing that she did indeed chase after Enjolras even after he passed her to another man. Eponine swallowed and pressed her hands to her tightening chest. It was as if he truly was inside of her and she couldn't get him out.

"Like I said," Enjolras stared with ultimate resolution, eyes unwavering, and slid the parchment to his side of the table. "I don't compromise."

He looked her over once more. Seeing she had finally shut up, his gaze roamed the paper again, rereading the last few sentences, the crease in his forehead reappearing as he concentrated on what he had written.

Eponine was struck with a newfound sense of dismay. He laid out his ultimatum. It was an all-or-nothing approach—she either submitted to him, or he cast her off as a whore who should be tossed around to several men as a reminder to why he shouldn't want her anyway. Then again, they both seemed to know that she would keep running back to him the more he pushed her away. Before this whole ordeal, he still "cared" about her as he would for any individual stranger, but now, he's been purposefully going out of his way to spite her. She missed how uncomplicated things used to be.

"You said this before, but you still took me twice," she faintly pointed out.

"Sure, I'll take you as a _whore_ every now and then." He muttered it like an afterthought, too engrossed in his article to give anything more. He would never let his pride go, and she wondered how much more of his hostility she could bear.

The rumble of her chair legs echoed in the room as she slid out of her seat and stalked toward the exit. The air felt raw in the silence that swallowed the small sound of her footfalls. She stopped at the threshold and looked back, hoping maybe he might say something else or look up from the table. She silently counted to eleven and a half, and when he didn't, she left.

* * *

Eponine hadn't seen Marius all morning or afternoon, and she was wondering if there was something wrong. He told her that he would meet her at the café today to drop off the letter to Cosette, so she doubted he would purposefully not show up. The only time she had left the café was around 2pm to steal some bread, but she rushed back as soon as possible and no one claimed he stopped by.

She played with a loose button on her sleeve, twirling the white link around its thread. She took a sip of her water, running her fingers up and down the cup. She skimmed through an old newspaper, not actually reading it, but staring at a few advertisements pictures. She chatted with Courfeyrac who made a brief appearance. She walked to the counter, then walked back to her seat. She tried to keep herself busy by doing anything, but how long had she been waiting?

She flickered a glance to Enjolras who was speaking with a few unfamiliar faces at a table across the room. By the emphatic hand gestures, his quick-moving lips, and his furrowed brows, he was probably spreading his philosophy about the government. If he wasn't so self-assured, he might be bearable, she thought to herself. She might even be able to have decent conversation with him if he weren't so preoccupied with Patria and knew how to carry on a conversation outside of the topic. And if he didn't feel personally offended by her, he might actually treat her with some semblance of respect.

Eponine leaned forward in her seat and dropped her head to the table over her arms, debating if she should leave. But what if she left and Marius arrived not even ten minutes later? He would be so disappointed. But what if something terrible happened to him? She should be out looking for him, not sitting here. She groaned into the dark space created by the circle of her arms and closed her eyes until boredom lulled her to sleep.

It didn't even feel like twenty minutes, but by the time she lifted her head, the room was only scattered with just a few men. She rubbed the grogginess from her eyes, and stared out the window and saw the sun slowly lowering behind the distant tree branches. She estimated it must be between 8-9pm. No sign of Marius, but Enjolras was still at his table, now alone, and was shifting back and forth between two outspread pamphlets.

She pushed her hair back and stood slowly, her legs wobbling after sitting for so long. Enjolras looked at the approaching figure entering his periphery, and clenched his jaw when he realized it was Eponine who was making her way over to him. She watched him scribble a note in the margin of one pamphlet, then underline a sentence in the other before she cleared her throat.

"Has Marius stopped by at all?" She turned her head and cast her eyes upward, making it known that she wouldn't have approached him at all if it weren't for her concern for Marius.

Enjolras just stared at her, which was worse than if he threw one of his insults or ignored her.

"I fell asleep, so I don't know if maybe he came in and spoke with you."

He continued to bury his gaze into her, now with a heat behind his eyes, as he asked, "Do I look like a messenger boy to you?"

"No, you look like a pathetic excuse for a man." He set himself up for that one, she thought.

He poked his tongue into his cheek and whispered lowly, "If there weren't other people in this room, I think I would break your fucking jaw."

"And you would be aroused by it."

"A critique from a girl who begs me to find new ways to hurt her."

"Have you seen him or not?" She huffed.

He released a strained breath through his locked teeth. The vein by his temple throbbed, which she only saw when he was very aroused or very angry, or both. Considering the trembled tone of his voice, he was furious. "Anyone with half a brain would know your _darling_ Marius is not coming. If you approach me again asking where he is, I swear I will snap your spine, witnesses or not."

She leapt back, a natural reaction to a threat. She remembered how he followed through on his last threat—when he strangled her with his belt for mentioning Marius in his bed—and she didn't doubt the current fury in his eyes. He looked ready to throttle her, no hint of sexual desire in his eyes, just anger.

Eponine sniffed the air, trying to look casual, and walked back to her seat, hearing his growl behind her. She knew it was a bad idea asking Enjolras of all people about her concern for Marius, but she was desperate to know where he was and if he was safe. It wasn't usual for Marius to forget his arrangements on giving Eponine his letters.

When she found her seat, she looked back at Enjolras who returned his attention to his pamphlets, his jaw tense and his fingers whitened by the hard grip of his pen. She told herself that Marius might still come. And if he didn't, then he probably had a reasonable excuse, but she should at least stay at the café just in case. He might have run into a problem that delayed him, and when he would arrive, he would see her waiting there and realize how thoughtful of a person she was. She played with the button on her sleeve again and ran her fingers along her empty cup, and waited.

She waited until the pale moon traveled into view from the window. She waited as the men in the room departed. She waited when the moon shifted across the sky, showing only a peek of its glowed surface from the window. She waited even when she realized that Marius was not coming, because it felt safer to stay waiting instead of entering into the night alone. She didn't even know what she was doing at this point—was she playing with the button of her shirt? Was she staring at the floor? Was she estimating the time from the location of the moon? Was she sleeping? Was she even breathing? She felt sad. Just sad. There was no other way to put it.

"It's time to go." Enjolras's voice hovered, crisp and cool, somewhere in front of her.

She heard him. She processed what he said and fought against the tears welling in her eyes. She bit her lip and kept her focus glued to the cup.

"It's past midnight."

She didn't care. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay planted in her seat, staring at the cup. He could leave her alone in the dark room, and she would prefer that over forcing her body to move with the world's motion. It just felt too hard to stand up, and she wanted to sit there, unbothered and stilled.

He sighed and drawled, "I don't think he's coming, Eponi—"

"I don't care what you think!" She suddenly screamed out, squinting her eyes from the force of her voice.

He slowly raised his eyebrows. He threw his coat over his forearm and stepped around her. "I doubt Hucheloup would appreciate me allowing a thief to dwell overnight. Stop wallowing in self-pity and get out."

She jerked her arm when he reached to grab it, and jumped up. Throwing her shawl around her back, she kept her head low to hide her face. She roughly shoved Enjolras's shoulder with a grunt as she ran past him and out the door. A large part of her hoped that the shove would anger him enough to chase after her, but he didn't.

* * *

A flood of relief surged through her body when she saw him. He was okay. He wasn't hurt. Eponine had spent the entire night thinking about Marius. She even went to his home and peeked through the windows, but he wasn't there. Her mind raced with tragic scenarios of what might have happened to him, and when she ran into Jehan and asked him if he had seen Marius, she was so relieved to hear that he was last seen buying bread on Rue de la Harpe.

When she found him sitting against a tree, eating some bread and reading a book, she recited a thankful prayer and tumbled her way over to him.

She didn't bother catching her breath as she wheezed out, "Where have you been?"

Marius looked up from his book in surprise, gesturing her to sit down. "Eponine, are you all right?"

"Where have you been?" She asked again, falling to her knees beside him. "You weren't at the café yesterday. I've been so worried!"

There was a flash of confusion, then an apologetic expression. "Oh, I'm sorry. I ended up delivering the letter myself. I forgot to tell you. I hope you didn't wait too long for me."

Eponine closed her eyes and felt the tip of her ears redden as she fought to find the right answer. "I…I wish you would have told me."

His face dropped in sincere regret. He wasn't a bad man who purposefully went out of his way to torture her; he just didn't give her much thought. He scooted closer to her. "I'm so sorry, 'Ponine. I decided to take the chance to see Cosette myself. It's been so long since I've seen her, so I took the risk."

She looked down at her lap, then the sky, then back at Marius.

"Do you forgive me?" He asked with an endearing smile.

Those eyes were so beautiful and warm, and she felt that flutter in her stomach that quickly shuddered throughout her body. She heard the chatter of passing couples walking by before nodding her head. "Of course I do, Marius. That's silly to ask."

It was a strange sensation. To feel her heart swell from his tender smile while sink low into the pit of her stomach at the reminder that she meant little to him. She had sat at the café the entire day, and he had neglected to tell her anything. But it's not like he knew she would sit there all day for him, she thought to herself, so maybe she had no right to feel hurt by it.

"Did you…were you able to stay with Cosette long?" She asked, remembering how he never came home.

He leaned back against the tree. "She was able to sneak out into the garden only a moment. But when her father went to bed, I stood by her bedroom window, and we wrote notes to each other all night."

Eponine knew she should have run off, not wanting to endure the torture any further, but she couldn't help but ask him for the details. She needed to know. How long did he stay for? What did he think of her? What sort of things did they say to each other? How long have they continued their correspondence, and how often did he see her? He was discreet and gentlemanly enough to hide the details, but any small bit of information he did reveal broke her into pieces. From the way he spoke about Cosette's loveliness and beauty, Eponine was reminded of how there was no chance he could ever love her. Why would he ever want her when he had the affections of someone like Cosette? Why would _any_ man want her when there were so many intelligent and talented young beauties in the world?

She listened to Marius praise Cosette and muse about love until his words seemed to mesh together into a spiral of sounds that swirled through her head. The words whirled and whirled until she felt dizzy, and she followed the familiar path that led to Enjolras's flat.

* * *

"You win."

Enjolras was lying on his bed and reading a book that he balanced on his chest when she opened the door. He turned a crisp page.

Eponine shifted her feet in irritation at his refusal to respond. "I give up. All right? I'll stop whoring myself even if that means I starve to death and my emaciated body is found in an alley being chewed on by stray dogs."

He rested his book flat on his chest and craned his neck to look at her with an unimpressed expression. "Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"

"No, you're much too cold for that."

"Am I?"

"Yes." She closed the door and leaned against the knob. "You're an arrogant, self-righteous man who believes he knows better than anyone."

Enjolras lazily sat up in his bed and squinted his eyes, looking somewhat amused. "Go on then. Tell me what you really think."

"You're insufferable and selfish. You look down on the people who don't obey you because you're a self-entitled bourgeois boy at heart. You only want to help the people to feed your own ego, even if that means killing your friends who follow you because they mistake your dedication for selflessness. But truly, you just want to feel needed to satisfy any sense of identity which you sorely lack. You bully and manipulate others into following your ideas, which makes you no better than a tyrant."

Somewhere between "self-entitled bourgeois boy" and "killing your friends," Enjolras looked ready to load his gun and shoot her. His mouth was a tight, thin line as his nostrils flared in huffs. His entire face had gone red and veined, and he squeezed the book in his hands until the wounds on his knuckles reopened and bled. If Eponine had continued, she wouldn't have to worry about starving to death; Enjolras would kill her himself.

Slowly and coldly, he bit out, "The fact that I have given up everything to fight for a government that empowers the people makes me a tyrant? The fact that I spend my days rallying the people to find strength within themselves makes me selfish? The fact that I would willingly die before allowing any one of my friends—"

"It doesn't feel good to be judged, does it?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

The spine of his book snapped in half. "Are you trying to provoke me into a rage? Are you that desperate for a fuck that you think you could _manipulate_ me into—"

"No, I already said you win." She uncrossed her arms. "I didn't mean what I just said about you. I just wanted you to know, if only for a few seconds, how you've been making me feel these past several days. Judging me the way you do."

"Accusing me of leading my friends into death only to satisfy my ego is not the same as calling you a whore. You _are_ a whore."

"Were," she corrected. "I'll stop. You win. I just want things to go back to how they were. We can continue ignoring each other in public, that's fine. But I want to go back to this. Whatever _this_ is. And I know you do, too, even if you're too proud to say it directly."

Enjolras had this way of looking at her that was both cold and hot. His eyes were icy and hard, but the way they bore into her skull made her feel like she was on fire. She turned her head, waiting for him to respond, but was met with uncomfortable silence. What was she doing, she asked herself. She walked into his room, practically begging him to take her as she admitted defeat, but he says nothing?

"I want you to stop judging me because I never once judged you, no matter how horrible we both have been to each other. I know I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm living in an alley on Saint-Michel. I'm in love with a man who would never… I want you to…make me feel…" She didn't notice her quiet tears until she started choking on them. She brought a trembling hand to wipe her face as she darted her gaze further away from his. "…make me feel something other than…the hate I feel for myself. To be wanted. Even if it's just for a little while, make the pain feel good. For just a little while."

When she finally faced him, Enjolras had returned to his blank expression. "Why are you here?"

She gasped in frustration at the question. "Are you not listening to what I'm saying for—"

"No, _why_ are you here?" He asked again.

Why did she come here tonight? Why did she suddenly relent to Enjolras's demand, even if that meant she would die of starvation as she claimed? Why surrender now?

"Marius ha—"

"There it is," he muttered, resisting a scoff and an eye roll. He tossed his damaged book on the floor and stood up with a sigh. "You could be lying. This wouldn't be the first time you told me you would do something when you had no intention of doing it."

"I'm not lying. You would know from my body if I were with other men. They often leave marks," she mumbled, then heard him grunt.

He placed his hands in his trouser pockets and scrutinized her up and down as if he were evaluating her sincerity. It reminded her of the way he examined her that night on the streets when he mocked her for being a prostitute. Eponine pursed her lips and bit her tongue, knowing that he was going to bullet her with insults and ridicules. He would relish in the fact that he was right about how she would come crawling back to him, about how his stubbornness won because she was feeble and pathetic. He would make her scream in admittance that she was nothing, that she didn't deserve to live. She waited for it and waited for it until she turned sick with apprehension and shivered under the weight of her shame. But when she looked at him, she saw an unfamiliar expression on his face that she never saw before. It looked almost like curiosity, but not quite.

"Come here," he said softly.

She stopped breathing. The tenderness in his voice startled her, and she would have fallen if the door didn't catch her. She grabbed hold of the doorknob for support and listened to the cool rain that started outside. When she had walked to Enjolras's flat, she had rehearsed in her head what would happen. She was prepared for the insults, the shouting, and the false coercion into bed. She didn't expect to hear his quiet voice and see the softness on his face like relief, and she didn't know how to respond. She often had to ask herself, _was this a test?_

Going off of past experience, she slowly brought herself to her hands and knees. Pressing her palms into the cold floor and sliding her knees beneath her, she crawled forward, keeping a steady gaze on him to see if this was what he wanted. He looked surprised, but not dissatisfied. He took his hands out of his pockets and silently watched her make her way to him. To Enjolras and probably several other men, there was something about a woman on her hands and knees that brought out a primitive sensation. Maybe it was because of the submissive position in which she willingly placed herself. Maybe it was from having her face so close to his manhood. Maybe it was the way she looked up at him with her wide eyes as if she only wanted to make him happy.

He released a slow breath, and she stayed on the ground by his feet. She untied her dress at the back and pulled it over her head. She removed her undergarments and her stockings, and stayed crouched down, completely naked. She wasn't sure what to do next, so she decided to do what she thought most men would have wanted. But when she reached to loosen his trousers, he put out his hand for her to take instead. Eponine swallowed and placed her hand in his, and he gradually brought her to her feet.

They stood facing each other in silence. When she realized her hand was still in his, she quickly withdrew it and rubbed her palm against her thigh. Her heart pounded faster when Enjolras curved his fingers around the shell of her ear before pulling her into a kiss. It was slow at first, as if both were somewhat unsure of the other for whatever reason. They both seemed to realize that there was something vulnerable about this moment—her surrender and the mutual acknowledgement that he wanted it and now possessed it. It was more than a sexual surrender, the sort of sexual yielding that she always gave; it was the admittance that she would choose him over self-preservation. Enjolras could have accepted it with ridicule and mockery, but he decided to accept it cautiously, perhaps appeased enough by her surrender to expose his own naked desire for her.

Their lips brushed in flutters. His fingers skimmed her warm cheek, and she curled her own fingers against his shirt. She brought the tip of her tongue to his, and he returned it with greater force as if he knew no other way to respond. He cupped her face and angled his mouth into hers, more demanding as he pressed his pelvis into her stomach where she felt his hardness. She grinded into him, rubbing his erection between their bodies, and she felt the heat of his groan in her mouth. His right hand abandoned her face and ghosted down her neck and to her breast, where his thumb grazed over her nipple, and she sensed the wetness forming between her legs.

"So, what shall your punishment be?" He rasped out.

She jerked back and stared, a little bewildered.

"For not obeying me from the beginning." He cocked an eyebrow when she still appeared surprised. "You came here for a reason. If you want pain, I'll give you pain."

He was right. He may not have screamed and gone mad as she expected him to, but this was still Enjolras. She came for a particular reason and he would deliver. He was a violent man, and she shuddered at the thought of what he might do to her.

Eponine looked down at her feet with blushed embarrassment, but he roughly lifted her chin.

"Eyes on me." His voice was demanding, which sent a thrill through her body, and she nodded her head with a quiet, "Yes, Enjolras."

He gestured for her to sit on the bed while he began undressing. His movements were casual as if he were the only one in the room and were preparing for sleep. He stared thoughtfully at the wall as he loosened his tie, and she knew he was running a list of ideas for punishment through his head before coming to one.

"Tell me about the men you've been with."

Her mouth opened in disbelief as she watched him untuck his shirt. "You want me to tell you about the men I had sex with?"

His shirt was halfway over his head when he said, "You know I don't like to repeat myself."

She eyed him with suspicion, wondering why he would want to hear something like this. Was he trying to get himself angry before the real pain began? There was a flippant tone in her voice as she started, "Well, I guess about three weeks ago, I needed—"

"No. From the beginning."

The beginning? She straightened.

Her mind raced to the beginning and her chest tightened. She felt her pulse pick up speed and her skin grow hot. She had worked so hard to suppress the memory. She told herself she would never think of that moment again. But now, being asked about it, her hands trembled on her lap, and she curled forward as she pulled her hands closer to her body. She noticed Enjolras staring at her hands before he brought his gaze to her face.

"I was twelve," she started quietly, her expression vacant while her mind was lost in recollection. "My parents said we needed money, so my father wrote a note and sent me on my way. I figured it was just a note asking for money, which he normally did. But…" She looked at her hands that were now violently shaking and she squeezed her fingers into fists to steady them.

"Eyes on me." Enjolras reminded her.

Eponine looked up at him again. He was removing his trousers. "It was the third house I visited. An older man answered it. He was…he had blond hair and brown eyes. A nice smile. He read the note and took me in. It was when he kissed me that I realized what the note must have said. He took me into his bedroom and…"

Enjolras stared into her eyes that were brimmed with tears as she struggled to keep an even voice. He knew she wanted to turn away or pace around, just stop talking entirely, but she didn't. She listened to his command and maintained eye contact, keeping her body still on the bed.

"How did it feel?" He asked.

A shuddered breath escaped her as if a new door to the memory had opened and overwhelmed her. "It felt…I was very scared. I was twelve. It was," she swallowed, "painful. He held me down and…he held me down and he put himself in me. I thought I was dying. I didn't quite know. I didn't know what was happening."

"How long did it last?"

"It seemed like forever. When he was done, he gave me fifteen francs. It was more than what my father had requested, but I was a virgin and he wanted to thank me." She closed her eyes and whispered, "Why are you asking me about this, Enjolras?"

The mattress dipped beside her and she found him naked in the bed. His expression stayed blank. "You want pain, I'll give you pain. Tell me about the next one."

She felt his lips trailing soft kisses on her neck, behind her ear where she liked it the most. "The next one was not long after. It didn't hurt as much, but I still couldn't stop crying. I remember he smelled like tobacco. I still don't like the smell of the stuff." Her voice wavered as her lower lip trembled and her throat went dry. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Tell me about the next one," Enjolras demanded, lowering her down on the bed and kissing her neck. She felt his hard arousal against her thigh, its head wet with pre-cum and smearing against her skin.

Eponine moaned when his tongue circled her nipple, and her hips automatically writhed in wanting. "The next one was not long after the second. He was an old man who couldn't move well. So he sat on a chair and made me…lower myself on his body." She gasped in pleasure when she felt Enjolras's finger gently rub her clit.

"How did it feel?" He grasped the flesh on her breast with his free hand and she shivered under him.

"It was awful. I had to face him and open myself around him. I had to be the one to move against him, like…as if I wanted it. Like it was my choice."

The mental image of the old man grinning at her and directing her as she climbed on top of him shook through her brain. She was so young. She remembered the feel of his flesh beneath her thighs as she spread her vagina open with her small hands and struggled to put herself on him. She remembered the way he cooed and told her how to move her hips and praised her for doing such a good job at riding him. The feel of his dry hands as he rubbed her shoulders and touched her breasts that barely budded—

Eponine threw her hands over her face to cover herself as if that could make her disappear. Unable to control her emotions any longer, she cried into her palms, her entire body shaking on the bed as she sobbed, sucking in deep breaths and shuddering them out. She knew what Enjolras was doing. He wanted to hurt her with her own memories, her deepest pains. He wanted to make her suffer in a way that he never could—by making her face the pain that already existed within herself. He was evil. He was nothing but evil. And to make it worse, he was pleasuring her to confuse her body and mind of the difference between the agony and gratification she was feeling.

Enjolras grabbed her hands and moved them from her face, but she couldn't stop crying as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest tightened, and she choked on the air that flashed in and out of her collapsing lungs. Her face was wet with tears and her mouth was thick with saliva as she tried to shut away the memories. She needed to lock them away, never to open them again. Never relive them again.

"Eyes on me," Enjolras whispered, then breathed in and out deeply and slowly for her to mimic.

She made a small circle with her mouth and followed the rhythm of his breaths. Her entire body seemed weak and tense, as if any sudden movement would shatter her into pieces. She wanted to vomit, retch herself of the sickness and sadness. To regurgitate the men's residue still stuck within her. Enjolras continued his deep breaths, which she copied until her cries subsided, and she felt like she could breathe again. But when she opened her eyes, now red and strained, and stared into his face, she was thrown into a fit of angry cries.

"I hate you, Enjolras! I hate you so much! You are manipulative and sick! And I hate you! I hate you!" She screamed it over and over again, completely in hysterics, as she covered her face with her forearms and cried. There was so much hurt and confusion, and she held nothing back as exploded into tears.

But that didn't stop Enjolras from roaming his hands over the swell of her breasts, down her waist, and drawing small shapes at her hip. When he lightly pinched her clit, he heard a gasp somewhere between her cries. He moved lower down her body, kissing along her sensitive belly where goosebumps rose under his touch. She slowly began to pacify as he continued pressing his lips softly to her skin. Her breath escaped in quick inhales and long exhales. She opened her eyes to see his golden locks of hair at her stomach, and he looked up at her with those angelic eyes that strangely calmed her until she stopped crying.

"Tell me a recent one."

He spread Eponine's thighs and pressed his fingers into her wet slit, and she moaned at the feel of his two fingers pumping into her body, and she melted into the bed with a small whine. He drew tiny circles, curling his fingers deep within her, and she bucked against him, wanting a faster rhythm.

"A couple weeks ago," she sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I encountered a man on his way to a brothel. I took him to an alley, where he had me against the wall."

He lightly bit her nipple before pressing his tongue onto it. "Tell me another one."

"Days ago, I met a man with a green coat in a carriage. I was surprised he took me in. I straddled him. I pocketed a gold coin in addition to some sous he paid me. I'll be set for a while yet." She yelped when he bit the flesh of her neck in anger, hearing that she was with another man not too long ago.

He added a third finger and she lifted her hips to get him deeper. Enjolras's knuckles were glistening wet with her juices as he drew wider circles until he found the pink knot within her. Her mouth opened to a silent cry, her eyes focused on his as she waited for the slavish ecstasy to consume her. Her pain and anger conflated with her desire as she focused on his nimble fingers that massaged her.

"Beg me for it," he demanded, knowing just how close she was.

"Please let me come, Enjolras," she breathed out, gyrating her hips against his fingers. "I need you to let me come. I need it, please!"

He kissed near her bellybutton, feeling her stomach concave to the press of his lips. "One more time."

"Enjolras, I need you! Please, I'm so close! I need you to let me come! I need you!" At this point, she would say anything. She would tell him anything. She was so close to the edge. She fisted the bed sheets in her hands as she pleaded for the sweet release.

He moved his lips to her clavicle, his tongue mimicking the small circles he made with his fingers that were still busy within her. He knew it would take a few slow curls of his reaching fingers to leave her in a satisfied, hot mess, and she kept her pleading eyes glued to him. But just seconds away from her climax, he withdrew his fingers.

Eponine gasped at the shock. The intensity building within her faded into a heavy, dull ache. There was no satisfaction, no bliss, no nirvana to save her. She felt empty and sick at begging him for something he wouldn't give.

He leaned to her ear and whispered smugly, "I know."

"I hate you," she said again without emotion. It was just a cold fact she needed to state.

He crawled and positioned himself between her legs, the head of his manhood at her slick entrance. "Tell me about your first time with me."

He sheathed himself inside of her sopping wet heat, and she grasped his arms with a breathy moan. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his backside to encourage him deeper, as he slapped into her in steady strokes. He stretched her open, hitting places where his fingers couldn't reach and she threw her head back into the pillow at the invasion, allowing her body to take in the pleasure.

It was risky of Enjolras to ask her to talk about their time together, especially when she was angry at him. She could lie and say he was terrible and sloppy, that he wasn't impressive and lacked in size and skill. But when she looked to find him staring at her with that same unusual expression she couldn't decipher, she decided to go with honesty.

"I took you by surprise. We had sex on this bed. You were cautious. Almost gentle. Completely different than how you are now. A part of me misses that."

Enjolras grabbed her buttocks and pulled her body harsh against his. She bit her lip and whined out a high-pitched mew.

"Oh God," she moaned, grabbing his hair and finding his hot mouth.

"And now?" He asked, yanking her hair back to pull her mouth away from his.

Her eyes shot open and they froze, staring at each other. "And now, I hate you almost as much as I hate myself. But I can't stay away because you make hating myself feel so good."

He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her roughly, his teeth catching her bottom lip and sucking. He grabbed her hips and dug into her, angling himself to find that knot within her again, and she closed her eyes.

"Eyes on me," he grunted out.

Eponine snapped them open and stared at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the vein throbbing at his temple. She wanted him to split her in two and murder her when she hit that final climax before she soaked in her agony. He wrapped his arms around her curved back and rolled them over, placing her on top. She froze, stunned at the sudden change of position, her legs spread above him as she straddled his hips.

"Finish it out."

She was struck with the sudden horror of remembering the old man who made her ride him. He stood out in her memory as being the first man who made her take the active role in sex, and she suddenly felt paralyzed at being placed in the situation again, when the memory of the man was so fresh. She didn't know if Enjolras had done this purposefully, to find another way to hurt her until the very end of it, but he grabbed her hips and whispered her name, urging her on until she finally recalled the ability to rock her body against his length.

She kept her eyes focused on him as she felt the intensity rebuilding within her. She could feel every ridge of him, how deep he was inside of her as if he were in her stomach, and she squeaked out little moans as she impaled herself on him. She was so close to ecstasy that she started babbling some nonsense that she later won't recall. She leaned forward on his chest, lightly coated in sweat, and bounced up and down until she sensed herself getting closer to climax. She closed her eyes, and the image of the old man flashed through her. He was so clear in her mind that she could practically reach out and touch his thinning hair, trace the wrinkles on his face, and smell the medicine on his breath. She felt that familiar quiver in her bottom lip which meant she was close to breaking down into another gut-wrenching sob, but Enjolras grasped her chin before she fell apart.

"Keep your eyes on me," he said gently, but firmly.

She nodded her head, feeling a few loose tears stream down her face, which he wiped away with his thumb. Three times, four times, on the fifth slam down into him, she screamed out and clawed her fingers down his chest, convulsing above him. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling off, and he bucked himself up into her, needing to penetrate more of her tight body and feel her spasms grip him hard. The sting of her nails and the tight vibrations of her sex had him grunting and tensing as he clutched her hip into a bruise and exploded out his release with a throaty groan.

Eponine collapsed forward, dropping her head against his heaving chest. She heard his heart beat seven times before he grabbed her and rolled their bodies over again, placing her beneath his own. She pressed her face into his pillow, wiping her tears against it. She closed her eyes, working on compartmentalizing all those memories back into their little boxes and locking them away. Enjolras watched her with knitted brows, not saying a word. He reached out his hand and brushed away the tresses of hair that were clinging to her wet face.

At his touch, she returned his gaze. She loved the way he looked after sex—yanked, messy hair; skin coated in sweat; hooded, dark eyes; flushed cheeks and swollen lips. And his voice always sounded lower, rougher.

"How do I compare?"

Maintaining the eye contact he wanted, she decided to continue with honesty. "Of all the men I've been with, none has ever caused me as much pain as you have. You are the cruelest and the most heartless man."

The answer didn't surprise him. He pushed her thighs apart and reached to her sex, pressing a finger inside of her again. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, and he curled his index finger, collecting as much juice from her as he withdrew. On his finger was a mix of his semen and her wetness, which he brought to her mouth. Her tongue slowly lapped at his nail, then she swallowed the entire wet length and sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks. The wetness was slick in her mouth, and he felt her warm tongue riding up and down his finger to savor every bit. Enjolras watched her clean off his finger, and when a small drop landed on her bottom lip, he slowly drew his tongue across to collect it. They locked eyes, and he removed his finger to throw his own hungry mouth entirely over hers, using his tongue to probe her sticky mouth that tasted like sex.

She hummed in yearning when he pulled away, his face hovering close above her. His steel eyes bore into hers as if he were searching for something. She didn't know if he found it, whatever "it" was, but he kissed her one more time, softer. He rolled off and leveled his back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling with a deep exhale.

Now that it was over, Eponine suddenly felt more vulnerable than she ever felt before. She told him things that no one knew. And these were things that could very well give him more fuel to judge her and think even worse of her than he already did, she thought. He might never want to touch her again after this, after discovering she's been whoring herself on and off since the age of twelve. She was damaged and repulsive and now it was verified. What had she done?

She leapt out of the bed to retrieve her clothes, feeling that usual sickness that consumed her after every sexual encounter with Enjolras. She had to admit that she brought this on herself. _If you want pain, I'll give you pain_. She sometimes wondered if she were to ever ask him not to give her pain, would he be willing? Or did he only continue this with her because of her desire for his afflictions? Would she even want it without pain?

With his hands behind his head, Enjolras kept silent while staring at the ceiling. Things felt familiar. This was how it was supposed to be. Neither of them talking, just awkward quietude, and the mutual shame of what they had done.

She slipped her feet into her torn shoes and adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. She opened the door to exit, but before she could bring herself to leave, she nervously asked, "So, are we all right?"

She regretted asking it the moment it came out of her mouth.

There was a six second gap of silence. She thought he wasn't going to answer, but he eventually mumbled, "We're never all right."

Eponine wasn't sure how to interpret that. She liked to tell herself that she saw a tiny smile when he said it, as if he were being cheeky or sarcastic. But there wasn't a smile, and she shut the door softly behind her.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not trying to idealize their relationship because I know it's dysfunctional, but I have to admit that while I wrote this chapter, the song "Sweet Surrender" by Sarah McLachlan kept playing through my head over and over again. Such a beautiful, yet sad and vulnerable song, and the lyrics fit pretty perfectly. (Listen to it. It's _so_ good!)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you so much for reading, and please review!


	8. Chapter 8

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hello! An update, loves! This chapter contains the mention of a couple OCs.

FEEL FREE TO SKIP OVER THIS LENGTHY NOTE, BUT THIS IS IMPORTANT FOR ME TO EXPRESS. For the past few weeks, I have been receiving messages from quite a handful of unhappy people who believe I am trying to advocate rape and domestic violence and would like me to remove my story. I would normally ignore messages like these, but because I am exploring sensitive issues within the story, I want to take time to give the issues respect my speaking about them and about where I'm coming from.

The emotions that Eponine is feeling in this story are quite personal to me. I am not pulling emotions out of thin air for the sake of sensationalism; my goal is not to romanticize misery or rape. At the same time, I'm not going to sugarcoat feelings/behaviors just because some people might feel uncomfortable recognizing reality's darkness. I am an adult who is comfortable investigating the psychological mechanisms behind sexuality and violence. I'm not writing about sexual violence because I think it's "cool"; I have emotional stake in this. Some might not understand this characterization of Eponine and think that she's too dependent, and that's perfectly fair if you think that. I hope you never do experience some of her negative feelings firsthand because they are awful to battle, but with what she has been through as a character in the musical/novel (and my head canon), I was very interested in taking this psychological exploration with her.

As for Enjolras, I understand that I made him very dark because I wanted to explore his anger and violent tendencies, particularly through sex, because sex is primal, communicative, and raw—and most importantly to me, it is private and shadowed. I am drawn to his character because of his dichotomy. He is both cold and passionate, intolerant and progressive, and selfish and selfless. Similarly, I'm not trying to glorify or depict Enjolras as a misogynist rapist, but he's not an ideal "romantic lead" either. Although we still have yet to delve more into his psyche, I want these characters to be more than archetypes. I think they can be multifaceted characters who are confused, lonely, and trying to deal with the struggles of living. Real life is hard, especially when you're constantly worrying about life and death.

I started this story as a character study, and I am still much more interested in exploring character depths, contradictions, and transformations than I am about narrative plot. I am extremely thankful to read **all** comments and feedback, including critiques on my writing, story direction, characterizations, etc., and I welcome open discussions on topics of societal and literary androcentrism because I study it for a living. But please do not waste your time reading this story knowing the warnings I have listed, and then expect me to argue with you via PM about how the story frightened/aroused you. This isn't for kiddies, and if exploring dark subject matter bothers you and the manner in which I explore it bothers you, then I beg you not to read it. And this chapter, like many chapters, contains violence and sex. **A lot of violence and sex!**

Lastly, for those who asked, I do not have a Tumblr account. And I'm sincerely sorry if this story is contributing to some sort of controversy for Enjonine fans on Tumblr...? I don't know what goes on over on Tumblr, but I was indeed shown an amazing graphic that someone made to go along with this story—whoever you are, I thank you for making it, lovely lady! :) xoxo That's very kind of you and others to spread this story around. I really appreciate it!

Whew, that was longer than I expected, but like I said, this was important to say because I want to respect the sensitive subject matter and I honestly don't want anyone thinking that I'm saying rape is acceptable, especially as a writing tool for sensationalism's sake. This will be the first and last time I write something like this in a note, so I'll be stepping into the background now—goodbye! :)

And of course, thank you for reading this story. I _really_ appreciate the time you give to reading and reviewing. You. Are. Wonderful. And now, onwards—

**WARNINGS:** dubious sexual consent/non-consent, explicit sexual situations, kink, D/s (dominant men), violence, & profanity. In other words, there will be _a lot_ of explicit, vulgar sex. If _any_ of this bothers you, please do not read this story.

**RATED:** MA / NC-17

* * *

**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_The warmth of his body had now felt familiar above her. The initial awkwardness had sufficiently worn off for her to feel comfortable enough to allow the sensations to take complete control. They have had sex three times now, which was enough to shed the awkward pretense and the clumsy fumbling into bed this fourth time around. This fourth time, she only had to enter his room and kiss him lightly before he swiftly laid her into the mattress._

_Enjolras settled between her legs and slid his hand under her shirt to cup a handful of her tender breasts. He pressed his lips to her neck and sucked hard, pulling the rush of her blood to the warm surface beneath his mouth. She gasped, and as if she willed him, his lips crushed into hers. His kiss was much like him—forceful, determined, passionate with an intense concentration._

"_Oh, Marius…" she breathed against his mouth._

_He froze._

_The few seconds that passed felt like hours. She popped opened her eyes, stunned that she said it aloud, and watched Enjolras stiffly lift his body from hers. She couldn't make the expression in his eyes beneath his furrowed brows, but the candles cast just enough light to catch his locked teeth. She felt embarrassed, but mostly for him, and wondered if he would feel too self-conscious and uncomfortable to continue._

"_That wa—"_

_He cut her off with a sharp slap across the face, and she shrieked at the force. Covering her reddened cheek, she stared wide-eyed at him, shocked that he struck her. He looked like a shadowed demon, and she nervously watched his hands clench into fists at his sides. But staring up at his silhouette straddling her hips, overtaken with anger, set her pulse racing. She was witnessing the beast within him, the animal passion that she had suspected lurked beneath his cold demeanor, and her breath grew erratic in excitement at the discovery._

_Enjolras leaned away, perhaps surprised by his reaction or perhaps giving her the chance to run off. Instead, she sat up, bringing her face directly to his. His breath was moist against her cheek as he waited for her reaction. With a renewed passion, she grabbed his nape and yanked him back down into the bed, smothering her body. _

_He matched her eagerness and thrusted his tongue into her mouth, his hand gripping along the sides of her waist. But when Eponine started pounding her fists against his chest, fighting him off, he pulled back with a look of uncertainty. She clasped his shirt before he withdrew too far. He stared down at her hand that clutched him, then studied her face. They shared a moment of understanding, and her heart thumped furiously in her chest._

_And then he attacked. He lunged forward, his hands forcing her shoulders into the bed. She felt his erection press into her center, growing harder as he rubbed it against her. She shoved her palm into his face to push him off, and he bit the side of her hand before she forced it away. Bucking against his body, she fought him just enough to give him a struggle without actually succeeding to escape. His hardness lined into her, piercing against their clothes, and she wished he would press deeper._

"_No, get off me! Get off of me!" She screamed._

_She felt him freeze again, a little unsure how to react. And when he started to retreat from her body, she tightened her knees around his waist and locked him in place. He squinted his eyes, as if questioning her for the last time. As an answer to that question, Eponine grabbed his tie and jerked him back down into the bed, moaning as his teeth smashed into hers in a violent kiss. He pinned her hips down as she continued to shriek and struggle to get away._

_There was something enthralling about fighting against his touch, only to be defeated. To be thrilled by her helplessness from the desire of being wanted. The anger and frustrations she felt within her were hurled at him, as she shoved hard into his chest, tearing at his shirt, and she grated into his pelvis buried against her warm center._

"_Yes, fight me," he growled, closing his eyes as he rubbed his erection furiously into her writhing body._

_She slapped his face, then winced at the stinging pain in her palm. He pressed his hand against her throat, his thumb at the hollow, and applied a light pressure. It was just enough to truly frighten her, and she screamed with the sincerity of a woman afraid for her life._

_He bit his lip, unsuccessfully stifling a loud groan, and his rocking grew erratic. "Fight me harder..."_

_When his hand left her throat, she felt a small disappointment, but fought him harder, not sure how much of a fight to give. But every kick, slap, scratch spurred them on as he grinded his rigid length against her undergarments, now soaked with her wetness. He would restrain her arms only to let them go seconds later for her to pound her fists into him. He rocked against her, rubbing into her as if he were truly sheathed inside of her, and she gyrated against his rhythm. It aroused Eponine to know he was more invested in the act of forcing her than the actual penetration… _

"Would you care for a piece?"

Eponine flinched. She looked up and saw Prouvaire holding _gros pain_. She stared around the café at the young men lightly chatting and laughing before turning back to Prouvaire. "Um, excuse me?"

"Courfeyrac brought some bread tonight. Would you like some?"

She stared at the bread for longer than it was necessary for anyone to stare at bread, but she was still in that hazy stage of exiting her memory. She wanted to linger in the recollection for a while longer. She had been thinking about that first night Enjolras slapped her, and she wanted to replay it once more. She heard Prouvaire say something else and she continued staring at the bread.

"Just give her the rest," Enjolras muttered as he walked by to reach Combeferre from across the room.

When she had refocused to the present, she found a large chunk of bread in her hand and two more pieces on the table. She ravaged the piece in her hand, not bothering to savor each bite, when food was only a means of sustenance.

Wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, she noticed Marius still hadn't arrived at the café, and she had been waiting for an hour now for the hope that she might see him. Contact with Marius was diminishing like a candle wick in a long night, and she wondered if it was because of Cosette. She rested her head against her knuckles and leaned her shoulders against the side wall of the nook.

Loneliness was often greedy when it would catch Eponine. It sank into her bones, shaking her tendons and violating her nerves, and she would feel it with every bend in her joint until it was easier to stay still and breathe slowly. It would seep into her bloodstream, and edge a space near her heart where she learned to carry it until some other emotion chased it away, such as the feeling of love when Marius would put his hand on her shoulder, or the feeling of relief when she would see Gavroche scurry past her on the street. More recently, the only sensations that dulled the loneliness were the confusing emotions she felt around Enjolras.

It had been three days since she revealed her memories to him, and while she worried he might use that information about her past to scorn her even further than he had been, he didn't. They stayed out of each other's way these past three days now that their riff was settled. But it still didn't feel completely normal, especially since Eponine wasn't sure if it was even possible to return to their former routine as much as she wanted to. He went too far last time with his questions, she thought, and now he could look at her, actually _look _at her, and see her for whom she was.

She wondered what he thought of her now that some of her deepest pains were splayed so openly to him. Was he harboring thoughts of severe revulsion? She looked for signs in his behavior, but it was difficult to read a man like Enjolras whose rigidity kept her at an arm's length. Although she knew things about him that no one else knew, she still didn't feel like she _knew _him, at least not in the same way that he now knew her. She needed to talk to him, just for a little, to figure things out. Yes, just to figure things out.

The men laughed at one of Joly's jokes, and she drifted into another memory, picking at its colors.

* * *

Enjolras was standing across the room and had noticed Eponine inhale the bread without taking a second breath when Combeferre handed him a piece of parchment. The frustration on Combeferre's face transferred to Enjolras who took the paper in his hands and skimmed through it.

"This is my letter," Enjolras said, eyes roaming the page. "I sent this to _Le Télégramme_ three weeks ago."

"And they've returned it."

"But this was solicited. I wrote this specifically for their newspaper."

To refresh his memory of what he had written, he briefly read through the letter. Auguste Halévy who managed _Le Télégramme _had requested Enjolras to write a letter focusing on how it was civic duty to support the Republic of France; he wanted to publish it in his newspaper. Halévy had published Enjolras's articles several times in the past; he supported Enjolras's beliefs and had been invaluable in spreading his word to citizens outside of Paris. Why would he return his letter?

"Halévy has been murdered." Combeferre answered, having known Enjolras long enough to answer the questions before hearing them asked. "He has been replaced by someone who is not very sympathetic to our cause."

"A Royalist?"

"Under this new direction, _Le Télégramme _feels your letter would be better suited elsewhere."

Enjolras threw his letter on the table in front of him, closing his eyes with a sigh. "Halévy had been my strong arm in communicating to the citizens. That man helped us gain a following from the beginning. And now he is dead?"

"And that's not all," Combeferre said quietly. "_Le Télégramme_ is being entirely seized by the monarch. Everything that will be published by _Le Télégramme_ will be monitored by the king's officials."

"I knew this would happen. It will become nothing more than a mouthpiece for the monarch. It cannot be a coincidence that the monarch seizes control over _Le Télégramme _at the same time Halévy is murdered…" Enjolras reached to yank his hair in frustration, but settled on running his fingers through it instead. "What's the name of the Royalist scum who has taken over for _Le Télégramme_?"

"His name is Jean-Jacques Moreau."

He squinted. "So Moreau murders Halévy to take over _Le Télégramme _in order to authorize the monarch's seize over it? Trying to avoid another July Ordinances catastrophe, I see."

"Yes, it's suspected that Moreau murdered Halévy, but that's hearsay. There's no direct evidence."

Enjolras shook his head, grunting out a scoff. He didn't need evidence. "To be a virtuous citizen is to engage in politics that support the rights of the people. By heading a press that purposefully disregards the people's interests and only supports the king, Jean-Jacques Moreau is no different than the oppressor himself!"

He slapped his palm against the table as a judge would strike the block with his gavel. The room grew quiet as eyes turned to him, and he felt a deep throbbing near his temple as his blood surged through his heated body.

Combeferre sighed. "We're all frustrated and tired, Enjolras. Perhaps we should go and talk more about this tomorrow."

Enjolras tapped his thumb against the cool surface of the table. Communication, mass communication, was instrumental in organizing a revolution. If supporters of the monarch were willing to murder a man to gain control over communication, then why shouldn't he?

"Halévy will be avenged, Enjolras," Combeferre said, giving him an assuring squeeze on the shoulder. "It's only a matter of time before the people rise and demand power. Freedom will come."

Enjolras nodded, feeling his friend pat him on the shoulder once more before moving away. The Chief sat down in a chair and slowly collected his thoughts on the situation. As a pillar of the Republic, he had a duty to commit actions that others wouldn't be willing to do. Freedom wouldn't be offered; they had to be willing to kill and die for it. Robespierre may have met his fate at the guillotine for his Terror, but the results were closer to anything the citizens had reached before. Moreau was not innocent, Enjolras thought, and the war for power was never without bloodshed…

"Are you staying?" Combeferre asked, gathering his belongings from the table.

The room was emptying out as the men collected their coats, and Enjolras leaned forward in his chair. "I'll lock up."

He watched Combeferre throw on his coat and head out the door. Once the door shut, Enjolras released a heavy, long groan of frustration, roughly pulling at his hair. He felt the exasperation accumulating in his chest as he continued to think about Halévy's murder. Whether or not Moreau played a direct role in Halévy's death, Moreau was still guilty of aiding the monarch's suppression of the people's rights. _So what should be done about it_, Enjolras mused.

There was a shuffle in the corner, and he looked up to find Eponine curled in the nook of the room, staring at him. She seemed wary, her large brown eyes unblinkingly fixed on him, and she crossed her arms over her raised knees. He could practically see the words hanging on the edge of her tongue, and he didn't like it. It took Enjolras only four seconds of staring at the floor to regain a semblance of composure, and then he began gathering his materials with a brisk air about him.

Eponine listened to the rustling of his parchments and straightened her back. It was clear to her that he was already frustrated with something, but he didn't look ready to throttle or insult her; he now looked as he did when he was around any woman—uncomfortable. She debated with herself on whether or not to linger in the room with him, and almost forced her legs to move themselves to the door. But how long could they both go on denying what they have been doing for months when things now felt too personal?

She opened her mouth to speak.

"Don't start."

She frowned, already irritated. "They're gone. You would think after all you've done to me, you wouldn't seem so tense around me now that we're alone…"

Her pulse picked up its pace when he stood from his seat and walked in her direction. But instead of approaching her, he started pushing the tables back into their usual spots after the men had left the room in disarray.

"…unless you're too disgusted with me to even look at me."

"Stop it," he said flatly.

"Do you think I'm dirty?"

Enjolras sighed, and pulled a table from against the wall to the middle of the room where it belonged. She watched him drag the tables into their appropriate positions, but she refused to let him have his silence, not when she wanted an answer.

"I know I wanted us to ignore each other for the most part, but I can't right now. Not after everything you made me say and relive that night." She paused, trying to form her words. "What you had me talk about…it just…it just feels…well, everything feels—"

"How you feel is no concern of mine, is it?" He said it more like a statement than a question, and tucked some scattered chairs around the tables.

"It is when you're the constant source of my agony. The things you do to me, I sometimes wonder if you're soulless. You're so evil..."

There was an abrupt pause on his way to grab the chairs near the counter, his middle finger ghosting over the wooden frames. He was still for several seconds, staring at the chairs, but it might have been because there was a puddle of spilt wine on one of the seats.

"But that's what you do, isn't it? You exploit me, hurt me, control me. And then you carry on with life as if it is anything worth fighting for," she continued, bitterness creeping into her tone. "Don't you see you're ruining me, Enjolras?"

His knuckles whitened as he clutched the chairs and swung them into the tables, a new tenseness overshadowing his original frustration.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

The tension in every movement of his body radiated into the air and hovered like a dank cloud. "I'm thinking you can think whatever the hell you want to believe I'm thinking. I just don't want to hear about it."

"You ripped out so much pain in me, I still feel nauseated from it. It was like…burning a white light through my insides. You ma—"

"Why are you talking?"

It actually comforted her to notice the tightness in his jaw; anger was an emotion that she knew how to handle in him. It was the first emotion he clung to, and it had become their lingua franca. Anything else from him would have felt foreign, as if they were speaking in broken phrases to each other in different languages. With anger, they were at least both fluent.

"What you're doing to me, Enjolras… I'm so confused, and it's all your fault. When I want your attention, you ignore me. When I want you out of my body and my mind, you keep finding ways to dig yourself deeper and deeper into me. You don't know what it's like to have your pains torn out for someone else's _sick_ pleasure."

Enjolras froze as if a gun had been lifted to his head. "Stop. Talking."

Because it was easier not to talk. Because they never truly talked about anything. But when her feelings were on the line, her fractured memories existing in the stagnant air between them, she couldn't take the quiet of not knowing what he was thinking. She thought it wasn't fair of him to expose her vulnerability, and then leave her guessing what he would do next.

She watched him firmly collect a few scattered chairs, his muscles tense and his grip locked into the wooden frames. "Things feel d—"

He slammed the chairs against the tables with roaring bangs as he hurled each one into place with a savagery that would make anyone back away slowly.

Eponine raised her voice. "Things feel different now! How would you feel if I forced you to bare your painful memories? After what you did to me, I—"

He smashed one last chair brutally against the table, and attached his eyes to her with a fury, his lips curled in a snarl. "Does it make you feel better? To put the blame on me? I didn't _force_ you to do anything, but we can certainly go there. It's not my fault you were a fucking whore at the age of twelve."

Her jaw dropped, stunned by how careless he was to throw her past in her face. "What?"

"I'm warning you, Thenardier. I am in no mind to le—"

"So that's it then?" She glared, more force behind her voice. "_You_ don't want to deal with me, so I shut up, is that it? _You _don't—"

"Yes."

Frustration ballooned inside of her, and she dug her nails into the bone of her knee. "_No_, Enjolras, that's not how it goes."

"No? You should know better by now than to use that word with me."

"My God, you are vile!" She shouted. "You are nothing but cold and inhuman! After everything I told you, you throw it back in my face! You are—"

"Save me your damn accusations," he seethed, taking a quick step closer. "If you want to torture yourself by re—"

"It's not about accusations! I'm talking about how you contr—"

"And I'm talking about _you_! Everything we have done is _your_ doing! If you feel like shit afterwards, I don't want to hear it! You—"

"_My_ doing? You know exactly what _you're_ doing when you're manipulating me! Everything you do is calculated, so don't stand there and act like _I'm_ the maniac, you black-hearted, despicable—"

"And how is it my fault that you are too stupid t—"

"—care for no one! Scum has more decency than you! I don't even know why—"

"—if _you_ fucking can't handle th—"

"—reprehensible revolutionary that doesn't even—"

"—trying to guilt me! Keep—"

"—while I suffer the brunt of it all! You control—"

"—always the victim! But you never—"

"You're a monster! You're not any sort of man! You're no man at all!"

With a roar of aggravation, Enjolras grabbed the nearest table and hurled it in her direction. Eponine shrieked and shoved her body flat against the wall as the table landed with a bang and went screeching across the floor, slamming into the jutted spaces of the walls on either side of her. For a second, she thought she had been crushed. She pressed a hand to her heart, feeling its rapid beat, and stared in shock at the heavy table that entrapped her in the nook.

"I'm very much a man," Enjolras said lowly, roughness grating his voice.

His eyes trailed down her body, from her exposed neck to her curled legs pressed against her chest. Her throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. She was familiar with that look, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't relieved to get him there. They were no good at talking.

His steps were slow and hungry as he approached the table. He flattened his palms against the surface and leaned forward, leering over her. "You're going to stop talking. And I'm going to remind you just how much of a man I am. Are you going to comply or will I have to _force_ you?"

Eponine looked down at her hands. Her breath grew shallow.

Seconds passed, and Enjolras rolled his eyes in impatience and grabbed a chunk of her hair, roughly dragging her body across the table, scraping and banging her knees against the rough wood. She stumbled onto the floor with a yelp, but he jerked her to her feet, still gripping her brown tresses, and she struggled to follow his long gait as he led her to the middle of the room.

"Strip," he commanded, releasing her with a shove.

She winced, rubbing the sore area on her scalp where he yanked her hair. "All right, you don't have to be that rough! I'll comply if you—"

He backhanded her across the face, not with a fierceness she had experienced before, but enough to disorient. She hadn't realized she had been struck until she fell against a table, but he yanked her hair again, bringing her back to the center of the room and whispered harshly, "The last thing you want to do is piss me off even more."

Eponine pressed the ache on her cheek, and took a few seconds to watch the candles flicker blurs of orange and yellow across his intense expression. She blinked, and then tugged at her skirt, sliding it past her sharp hips. The air felt cooler than the ground beneath her bare feet, and she ran her fingers over the goosebumps on her arms. She unbuckled the brown belt around her waist and paused when Enjolras held out his large hand.

Her chest tightened. He wanted the belt, and she knew what he would do with it once he had it. It was a thick belt, one she found in a pile of clothes she stole, and it was heavy and leathered and could cause quite the suffering if wielded with enough force.

With only the slightest hesitation, she squeezed the belt in her hand and then placed it in his. Before she let go, Enjolras grabbed her wrist with his other hand, sensing her jump under his cuff. He squinted his eyes at her, giving her that same interrogative look he did on their fourth night together. She looked away, her cheeks burning in embarrassment, and she heard him huff out a chuckle as he released her. Eponine pulled her shirt over her head and stood naked in the middle of the dim-lit room. She was so nervous, and she tried to focus her attention on the shallow puddle of spilt wine, but she couldn't stop herself from glancing at Enjolras.

He held the belt buckle, then wrapped the strap once around his fist, securing a tight grip. With a rough flick of the wrist, the leather strap whipped the air and smacked against the wooden surface of a table, and he nodded his head in approval. She closed her eyes, confused by the rush of emotions that surged through her.

"I must say. You have some nerve to goad me on a night when I am in no mood for mercy," he drawled, intimidation dripping into every slow syllable. He stepped behind her.

"I wasn't trying to goad you. I just wanted to talk—ahhh!" The belt slashed into her buttocks, stinging her soft flesh, and she fidgeted under the sensation.

"I'm going to beat that indignant tone out of you. Get on your hands and knees."

She glanced over her shoulder, but was met with another biting strike of the belt. She yelped and rubbed her bum as the sting burned into her skin.

"Did I say you could look at me?" When she didn't answer, he splintered the belt into her again, and she cried out, getting scared.

"No, I'm sorry," she said, dropping to the ground.

"Tonight, you're keeping your eyes on the damn floor."

She faced away from him, keeping her eyes downcast and waiting for the next strike against her bare bottom. She knew he was particularly angry, whether at her or at something else, but he wasn't playing. This was as empowering to him as much as it was thrilling to her, and she always took a small comfort in recognizing how they both wanted this.

He pressed his boot to the side of her knee, kicking her legs farther apart from each other. It felt lewd to be spread so open for him, and she was terrified with the possibility that someone might walk through the door. She shivered at the touch of the leather caressing the arc of her back and trailing down her buttocks.

"How many times do you think you defied me tonight alone?" He asked.

She bit her lip, unsure where he was going with this. "I don't know… Maybe five?"

"Try sixteen, you insolent whore."

_He counted?_

"Sixteen infractions deem sixteen lashes. But we'll just round it to a nice even twenty, hmm? Count them."

WHACK!

"Ahh!" She shrieked, as the leather splintered across the same spot he struck earlier, with harsher intensity. The muscles in her legs tightened as the red lash seeped and burned into her body.

"I know you are uneducated, but I thought you knew how to count."

The belt swatted the same scorched spot, and she shouted, "One!"

The next whip slashed the other side of her buttocks with the same cutting force, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the raw sting.

"Two!"

The third cut into her thigh, not as hard as the previous strikes, but she flinched in surprise, not expecting him to hit that area. The sting of each lash burned her skin, then tingled like sharp needles in the cool air. It felt like tiny heartbeats pulsing throughout her body in an exhilarating scramble. Her entire frame shook under the weight of the belt's whip, and she struggled to keep from collapsing as she arched and wiggled her back to get the blood rushing faster throughout her body.

The belt slashed into her thigh again, and her breath escaped in heavy pants, punctuated and erratic. It was getting harder to breathe and keep count. She wanted to close her eyes and be taken away with the chagrined sensations, but every count she had to say aloud kept her in the moment, and she was very conscious of his dominating presence looming behind her. He wasn't showing any mercy; she learned that even when he would land a couple softer blows onto her, it was only to intensify and shock her with the scorch of the next harsh strike into her flesh.

Enjolras stared at the bright red lines crossing over her body, and took a moment to bend forward to touch her warm sex. He slid two fingers into her and was welcomed with moist juice, which he smeared on the outer walls of her vagina, now glistening with her arousal. She sighed and gyrated her body into his calloused fingers, but he withdrew and straightened. The belt slammed into her buttocks again, and when she forgot to count, he slashed across the same spot repeatedly and quickly until she screamed out, "Twelve! Twelve! Enjolras, twelve!"

She started to cry, humiliated to be positioned like a dog on the dirty ground. He must have thought she was disgusting, she told herself, to treat her like this, and her next gasp came out as a long, pleasured moan.

Her nails clawed into the floor as his thirteenth strike whipped across her upper back. Her skin felt like it was on fire, but she closed her eyes and let the leather bury its mark into her flushed skin. There was no point to salvage any pride or dignity left within her, when she was dazed with exhilaration by his violation. But at the fifteenth blow, she wasn't sure how much physical pain she could take. She wasn't sure what she was feeling; everything blurred into titillation, but her body felt weak.

"Seventeen!" Eponine shrieked, her arms wobbling in a pitiful effort to keep herself up.

Enjolras paused and took a deep breath. She heard him pace behind her twice, and then the next three strikes were soft, maybe gentle against her buttocks. He walked to the front of her and pressed his boot lightly into her shoulder, pushing her into a seated position. She winced at the feel of her heels digging into her sore, tender bottom, and she squirmed in trying to find the most soothing area to place her rough heels.

"Have you been eating?" He asked.

That was a strange question. She almost looked at him, but remembered to keep her eyes diverted to the ground. "Yes, Enjolras, I have."

He squatted down in front of her, then lifted her chin to examine her face streaked with wet lines. She continued to look at the floor. "Every day?"

"Yes…"

"Good," he said. He let go of her face and stood up again, frigidness returning to his voice. "You're clearly aroused by this. I'm not sure whether to beat you some more or fuck you. What do you want?"

"I want you to stop striking me. It's too—"

Enjolras scoffed, then stepped behind. With another rough jerk of his arm, the leather belt scorched into her back. Eponine's mouth jerked open, but found no air inside of her to release the scream she wanted to project. Trembling at the pain, she curled forward, burying her head into her hands with jagged breaths that clawed their way out of her throat. Enjolras crouched beside her, gently running his fingers up and down the new red lash across her pale back, and she leaned into his caress, now craving the tiniest hint of soft intimacy.

"What do you want?" He asked again.

"I want…I want you to _keep _striking me?"

He shook his head, then reached to her breast where he squeezed and twisted one of her nipples until she cried out in agony.

"Stop!" She begged. "Please, stop!"

"Here's a lesson. Do not fucking lie to me when I ask you a question." It was a low hiss that matched the determination she imagined on his face.

"I already said I wanted you to stop striking me! That was the truth! But I'll say whatever you want!"

"Exactly." He stood up, staring down at her seated position. "It's not about what _you_ want. It's about what_ I_ want. You giving me what _I_ want will earn you what you want. Now, let's try this again. What do you want?"

"I want whatever you want. I want to make you happy," she said carefully.

"Good girl. Look at me."

Eponine lifted her gaze to him, wiping the tears from her eyes to see him more clearly. His face was tinged with crimson, his lips a thin white line. Seeing him like this, she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to bury her frame against his hard chest and cry as she kissed the man she hated.

"You seem very adamant on working that pretty mouth of yours tonight. You have a lovely mouth…"

Despite what he has been doing and saying to her, she couldn't help but blush at hearing him say she had a pretty mouth. He pushed away the hair from her face, running the back of his fingers down her cheek. She sighed in relief at the gentle stroke, but when she reached to loosen his trousers, that same merciful hand struck her sharply across the cheek. She yelped, falling to the side, but he was quick to force her upright by the hair.

"Did I say you could touch me?"

Eponine shook her head, frustration burning her eyes. "No, but I thought that's what you wanted!"

"It is what I want, but right now, I also want you to convince me that it is what _you_ want as well. Convince me."

His gaze remained on her, no hint in his expression of what she should do. Was there something in particular she was supposed to say? "I…I want to make you happy—"

"Yes, we've established that," he bit out in impatience.

Eponine resisted the urge to scream and attack him with all the aggravation she felt, but she eyed the beautiful belt and took a deep breath. "Please, Enjolras, let me make you happy. I want to…"

"I don't have all night."

"I want to...put you in my mouth." It felt so dirty and uncomfortable to say aloud. She had trouble keeping a steady gaze on him and saying it without flustering. "I need to taste your cock. Please, I need it."

He shrugged a shoulder.

"Please, I want to show you how much I need it. These past few days have been torture because I wanted you so much. I want you in me and I want to taste you. I want to feel you pressing into my throat... I want you to choke me with your cock for being such a dirty, contemptuous slut…"

The more she talked about it, the more she imagined sucking him off and pleasing him in a way that made her feel proud, like the night she crept into his room and woke him. She remembered how aroused she made him, how almost powerful she felt at her wantonness, at capturing his attention and hearing him moan and twitch at her actions. Even the sloppy kiss he planted on her after she was finished felt like some sort of reward.

"I want to be your whore, and I want to swallow you like a whore should," she said softly.

He looked somewhat impressed.

She stared at him with every muster of sincerity, and begged with open honesty, "Please feed me, Enjolras. I'm so hungry and I need you to feed me."

His eyes darkened. "You want me to feed you?"

He lifted his finger and traced it along her mouth, which she opened wide for him, and she heard a groan hidden somewhere in his long exhale.

"Yes, please feed me. I'm starving and I want you to come down my throat. I want to drink every drop of you. I need you to feed me because I'm so hungry. I would be so grateful for your generosity."

His mouth fell open with his own ravenous desire, and she forgot the anger she felt towards him. She wanted to throw her body against his until he flung her to the floor and shoved his manhood into her mouth like the worthless degenerate she felt she was. Eponine squirmed, struggling to control her anticipation as the slick walls of her vagina slid against each other in wanting.

"Here is the big question, Eponine. Pay attention now. Are you saying you are accepting it on your own accord, or am I coercing you?"

Eponine couldn't shake the feeling that this was trick question. She knew he loved the act of forcing her, but he also demanded her subordination which she willingly gave.

"I'll take it however you want me to take it."

Enjolras pulled her to her feet, nodding with a look of relief. "Very good girl."

There was something desperate in the way he grabbed her face and slammed his mouth into hers, slanting into her with enough force to smash her spine into the table behind her. She cried out, bringing more of him inside of her warm mouth. She tried to pull away, just to catch a breath, but he followed her down onto the table. His palms spread at either side of her head, and a jolt shook through her as she felt his groin pressed against her sex. She rubbed against the rough fabric of his trousers, massaging her mound into his hard arousal, and she moaned at the image of him splitting her tight walls open. Enjolras moved his hands to tug at his trousers that were slick in her juices, while her own eager fingers ripped at each grueling button of his waistcoat. As he pulled away to throw it off and rip his shirt over his head, the sweat on his neck looked too delicious, and Eponine ran her tongue along the throbbing green vein up to his jaw.

Enjolras groaned at the feel of her soft tongue lapping against his skin, and he hissed into her ear, "So if I want to whip you until you are raw and begging for mercy, it's because _you_ want it just as much as I do."

The belt was smooth as he ran it between her legs and up to her torso, and she shivered at the remembrance of its hot bite. "Yes, Enjolras."

"And if I want to _strike you_—" He slapped her brutally across the face, and she screamed at the sudden twist in her neck. He grabbed her chin and forced her back to him. "—it's because _you_ want it just as much."

Eponine could feel the imprint of his fingers still tingling along her cheek, and she made a noise that was a mix of a cry and a moan as the sensation turned into a rough burn. He was trying to prove a point, and her answer confirmed it. "Yes, Enjolras!"

His lips and tongue found their way back to hers, devouring her with a need she recognized within herself. She gripped her nails into his forearms when she felt him parting her thighs, and his hardness pressed against her stomach like a steel rod. He may never have looked at her with loving eyes, but to feel his desire and to witness the hot glaze of lust cloud his vision was rewarding. The way he looked at her like that, she would do anything for it—the power of being wanted that was both strong and weak. She moaned, and nibbled his lip before running her tongue across the bottom row of his teeth.

He positioned himself between her legs, rubbing the head of his manhood against her opening just to watch her body jerk against him, begging to be impaled. There was no resistance as he stretched her open. She was dripping with eagerness, and her juices ran down her inner thighs as he sloshed into her with rough, slapping rhythm. Her nails scraped through his hair as they shared a forceful kiss like a jagged apology, and he drew out her breath until she was dizzy. She pulled her mouth from his, no longer able to keep her mouth attached, as he slammed into her writhing body. Settling for pressing her open mouth against his shoulder, her hardened nipples rubbed into his chest as she squirmed in a powerless mess beneath him.

"Oh God, yes! Please, yes!" She begged into his skin.

The table violently shook beneath them as he pounded away like a man possessed, sinking into her with vicious force. Eponine felt the rising pleasure building within her stomach, and she clenched her muscles around his shaft as he buried himself to the hilt.

"Just like that. I want to feel you come around me," he breathed.

He slowed his motion, grabbing her buttocks and rubbing her body into his as he pushed into her. She let out a brutal shriek mixed with the agony and passion that she knew so well, and bit into his shoulder to gain some grounding of reality, just needing something to grab onto as her body convulsed. He squeezed her frame more tightly into him, now wrapping his arms around her shoulders to feel her entire body quake against his chest, and she clamped her teeth into his skin more harshly as she screamed out her climax.

"Harder," Enjolras grunted, and she bit down as ruthlessly as she could, breaking the skin, until her jaw couldn't take the pressure.

He clutched the back of her neck at the painful bite, and then her body went limp with exhaustion. He dropped her against the table.

"How hungry are you?" He asked, his voice husk and raw.

"Please…" She nodded her head, a bit delirious, as he climbed on the table and straddled himself over her chest.

Just as she was regaining some sense, she felt his erection sliding into her mouth. She closed her eyes, tasting and swallowing her sweet slickness that coated him, and she involuntarily moaned as she sucked hard. Her tongue ran around its thick head three times before he urged more of him inside of her mouth. He pushed away her hair from her face, sticky with sweat and blotted in heat. He trained his eyes over every fraction of her flushed face, memorizing the way her mouth stretched wide to accommodate his girth.

Her fingers ran over the rough hair trailing down at the base of his torso, and she lifted her head as she swirled her tongue up and down his length. Enjolras fisted the back of her head, dropping open his jaw to release a guttural groan, as he pressed himself deeper.

Eponine moaned in wanting, and with her free hand, she reached between her own legs and furiously rubbed against her clit as she felt her own desires collecting themselves into another knot within her stomach.

"You fucking whore…" he panted, and she would have thought he was yelling at her if he hadn't started mumbling a stream of curses that didn't make any sense together.

She withdrew his erection only to rub it along her lips and chin, as she moaned out, "Please feed me…"

His eyes widened a fraction at the sight of her caressing his member and begging, and he shoved himself into her mouth with a growl. Her mouth was hot and her throat was tight as he positioned his knees closer to her head and completely buried his cock. She gurgled at the invasion, her nails scratching down his torso as she tried to keep from gagging, and her eyes brimmed with tears as her body fought for breath. He dug himself in until there was no more to take, and she made frantic sounds and half-coughs over his length as she started pounding her left fist into his chest.

Enjolras threw his head back, cursing with a tone of awe, and he jerked shallow strokes into her mouth. He was close, and she stole small breaths through her nose, and she pinched her clit into another rush of pleasure, smaller than the last, but enough to leave her crying out and jerking beneath him. Just as her voice vibrated through his body, he gripped her head and thrusted himself into her tight throat, spurting his warm come into her mouth. The bruising force of his ejaculation hit her throat hard, and she flinched in surprise at the rush amount that hit her. Enjolras stared in amazement at the warm, white liquid that dripped from the corners of her lips as he filled her mouth with successive spurts.

He slowly pulled out, still hovering over her and watching her lay on the table with her mouth open, holding a pool of his sticky seed. Slowly, she swished her tongue around the warmth, savoring the salty taste, and gurgled his liquid once before swallowing in one gulp. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, and Enjolras took a few slow breaths to calm the wild beating of his pulse.

Now aware that he was still on top of her, he maneuvered off the table and collected his clothes in swift motions. Eponine didn't get up so immediately, but slid off the table and crumbled to the floor, leaning her back against the table leg.

The clammy tenseness ate into the air, and the sweat on their bodies grew cold. Enjolras heard her sniffle back a light sob, and he watched her wipe her wet face against her raised knees. He adjusted his trousers, tucking his shirt beneath the band, and then buttoned his waistcoat with deliberate care. The buttons were cool against his rigid finger as he slid a hard button through the first hole, and he continued to eye Eponine who stayed curled on the ground. He knew she was already replaying what they had just done in her mind, tearing it apart and finding the most humiliating moments.

He moved to retrieve her clothes from the floor when he heard her hushed voice.

"Do you think I'm dirty?" She asked again, because she could be just as relentless as he.

He picked up her clothes from the floor and carefully shuffled through them to find her skirt, which he dropped down on her lap. She ran her fingers over the brown linen, still waiting for a response, but heard only the wind shaking into the shutters. With her cheek still aching from his roughness, she stroked it against her bony knee.

"Stand up," he said.

She didn't at first, still a bit lost in her thoughts. It was when he said her name that she was shifted to the present, and she reached behind her to grab the table leg before dragging herself to her feet. Her toes were cold when she stepped into her skirt and pulled it to her waist.

"Do you think I'm dirty, Enjolras? I need to know for certain. Just answer, and I'll never ask again."

She gave him a look that said she needed to hear him say it more than anything, and his own expression was inscrutable as he refused to remove his gaze. "Does it make you feel better to assume my answer is yes?"

Eponine released a curt breath of air from her nose. She didn't know what he was suggesting, but she didn't like it. And she didn't like how he was avoiding her question. She closed her eyes again, and with a softer voice, she asked more slowly, "Do you think I'm dirty?"

"Do you think you're dirty?" Because he never answered a question he didn't want to answer. Or one that he thought was pointless to answer.

She ran her palms over her dank skin and nodded. "I think I'm dirty."

She opened her eyes to find him still staring at her with that impenetrable look. He stared for a long while. It felt like minutes, but it could have been seconds. The wind shook louder against the café, and she shivered at the thought of stepping outside. The dimly lit backroom of the café looked almost enchanting, the swirls of fiery colors changing the angles on Enjolras's face, and she wanted to stay still, watching how many portraits the light captured.

He held tight his gaze, and handed over her shirt. When she didn't take it, he pressed it into her chest, and she finally clutched it close to her body. She slightly turned from him to throw it over her head, and she sloppily put on each item of wear until the only thing missing was the leather belt.

It was in his hand, folded twice. He offered it back to her, staring more intently at her than before. She swallowed, a little unsure if she wanted the belt back or not. How could she wear it again after he beat her with it? If she wore it around the café, would it be a reminder to the both of them of what they had done? Would she learn to wear it as a symbol of her shame? Carry it on her body like the loneliness she carried in her heart? Would she—

"You think too much," he said.

Eponine's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Don't lecture me about thinking too much, Enjolras. You of all people."

With a huff, she moved to grab the belt, but he jerked it out of her reach. She flinched, worried by his sudden gesture. He leaned forward to level his eyes with hers, his voice now hard and grim.

"Don't ever. Blame me. Again."

And he returned the belt to the space between their bodies. Struggling to keep her hand steady, she grabbed the belt and turned around, fastening the leather around her waist.

What was meant to be a warning from him sounded close to a plea, and it disturbed her. Despite all her talk about wanting barriers, she hadn't considered the toll it might have been taking on Enjolras to hear her constantly blame him for all her agony when she was a willing participant to much of their activities. To walk into the café or his flat at any hour, and leave crying or screaming at him for inflicting so much anguish, like it was light conversation. She hated him, yes. He had been spiteful and cruel innumerable times, yes. He was manipulative, intolerant, and guilty of taking pleasure in hurting her, yes, all of the above. He provoked her almost as much as she provoked him, and he was a cold man, violent and obstinate. But he was not without his humanity and shame, and she often liked to forget that in their twisted affairs, because it was easier to blame him for all her misery just as it was easier for him not to discuss it at all.

Eponine listened to Enjolras blow out the candles around the room with soft, curt breaths, and he moved to the door where he waited near the threshold until she exited through it. She passed him like a phantom, wordless and lost, and she reached out her hands into the darkness of the streets. She winced at the brightness when Enjolras lit his lantern, providing enough illumination to guide her way out. She stepped forward with care, her heels rolling over pebbles as she scraped against the earth, and it felt like her feet were sinking. Despite her slow walk, he stayed three paces behind her on the stretch of Saint-Michel, catching their bodies in a small net of light.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Update! I just returned to my country a couple days ago, which is why I haven't been able to update in a while. I hope you haven't lost interest in reading during this wait! Thank you for all the support, and happy reading!

**WARNINGS: **dubious sexual consent/non-consent, explicit sexual situations, kink, D/s (dominant men), violence, & profanity. In other words, there will be _a lot_ of explicit, vulgar sex. If _any_ of this bothers you, please do not read this story.

**RATING:** MA / NC-17

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own any part of Les Miserables. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this.

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**THE WAKER'S LIGHT**

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**Chapter 9**

"You're not evil," she blurted, as he walked past her in the alley as he exited the café.

It wasn't the most graceful way of talking to someone—shouting as the person walked past—but she was never one to be elegant for Enjolras. She didn't think he was the sort of man to appreciate insincere civility anyway.

Enjolras paused at the mouth of the alley, his figure embedded into the night. He looked up at the sky, and his shoulders sank in the movement of a sigh. He looked as if he was debating with himself on whether or not to give her a few minutes of his precious time, she thought. He didn't have to say a word, and she already felt like kicking him in aggravation.

Eponine stepped forward, coming behind him, and he craned his head to study her before his body followed. His expression was curious, maybe suspicious. "No…"

"But I still hate you," she said.

"Yes, I know."

"You have no idea what I've been feeling since that night you made me relive—"

Enjolras rolled his eyes and turned away.

"But I don't blame you," Eponine rushed out, grabbing his arm. She quickly let go.

He stared at his arm where she cuffed him, and poked his tongue to the side of his cheek. He must have known she wouldn't let this go if he didn't at least hear her out, because she hadn't even tried to be discreet about eyeing him all day, waiting for a moment to pounce. She couldn't stop thinking about what he said the other night, about not blaming him, and she needed her response to be heard.

Eponine leaned to the side until her shoulder scraped against the jagged wall. "It's just—it was too much. It was too personal. And I know you didn't _force_ me to tell you anything, and I know I go to you willingly. I know I ask you to do things to me because I want it. You, too. I know that, but…but that still doesn't give you a right to manipulate me like you do. I con and trick people every day, and even I would never play the games you play on me. You—"

"You think you don't play games?" He asked.

She realized she had been looking down the entire time she was spewing out her words, and she lifted her eyes to his. His lips were shut tight, one brow slightly raised, and his hands dug deep in his pockets. He didn't look particularly interested in listening, but he didn't look angry either. If anything, he looked bored, and she wondered if he was doing that on purpose to undermine her words.

"You have no right," she said slowly. "You have no right to know what goes on in here." She pressed a hand to her heart, and her chest collapsed in a deep exhale under the weight of her palm. "You have no right to know what goes on in here because, well, you don't have permission! You don't get to see what I see in here because—because it's _mine_. And asking me those questions about my past and knowing those things about me now, that is where I draw the line. What I'm saying is you do not get to see my 12-year-old self. All right? It's private and it's mine and it's something you have no right exploiting or even knowing about. You have no idea what… You just have no idea." She did her best to keep her voice steady and her face brave, and she didn't know if she succeeded, but at least she said what she wanted to say.

And now that it was said, she wasn't sure what she should do next. She had expected him to argue with her, go into lawyer mode and tear her statements apart while she shouted her rebuttal over his voice. Or worse, seduce her into taking back everything she said because they both knew he could do it if he wanted to. Now she just felt stupid in his silence, and she quietly berated herself for choosing to ramble to him at a time when he was marching out of the café as if he were on an important mission and had been bothered by some girl who wanted to talk about the dreaded topic of _feelings_. But if he truly didn't want to listen, he would have walked off by now.

"What are you…" She wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but knew that would be the worst thing she could possibly ask at the moment. She cleared her throat.

The right corner of Enjolras's mouth twitched, and she forced herself not to look away as her face reddened from unknown reason. Brave face. She needed to keep on a brave face. And she needed to leave before it faltered.

She gave a curt nod of the head and turned her heel to escape the alley. She was hitting her fourth step when he muttered, "I won't ask about it again."

Eponine stopped. She almost turned around, but heard his footsteps leave the alley and drift off somewhere to her right. It wasn't an apology, and she wasn't expecting one, but it was something very close to a promise.

It should have made her feel reassured. It should have made her feel like barriers were being put up again, like he wouldn't cross that line into her private past if she needed that space to be strictly hers. It should have made everything better, but it didn't. Not at all. In fact, it felt worse. It felt like the most intimate and most sensitive thing he ever said to her, and she never felt more frightened of him.

* * *

Eponine tried to shake the feeling off, but it clung to her for days. Even when Enjolras sought her out nights later and snatched her along the Seine, she found herself shaking with a nervousness she never experienced before.

The night was starless, and Eponine saw nothing as Enjolras slammed her into the grass, and her head hit what she assumed was a thick tree root. His kiss was like fire, rushed and consuming, as he smothered her body into the earth with his weight. She could barely keep up; his hands already parting her thighs and lifting her by the buttocks to drag her body to his.

It started as a blur. She was walking along the Seine and hadn't noticed him until she heard footfalls fast approaching behind her, and she turned around just as his hand curved around her jaw and yanked her into a kiss. She wasn't even aware she was being led into the bushes until her back hit a thick tree with enough force to shake some loose leaves from the branches. The bark dug into her skin, scratching into her spine, and he grabbed the front of her shirt and threw her to the ground.

He was angry, that much was obvious. She knew there was a meeting with Les Amis de l'ABC earlier tonight, and by the way he was devouring her behind a group of bushes, she can only assume something had happened at the meeting to infuriate him. He had grumbled something about the name "Moreau" and fisted a handful of dead grass before biting into her neck.

The sweat on his forehead rubbed against her ear and cooled in the air. She ran her fingers through his thick hair, but stopped when the action felt too much like a sweet caress. Enjolras lifted himself by a fraction to loosen his trousers, and Eponine stared up, reminding herself that she uses him, too.

"Are you angry?" She whispered.

"Yes." He tore open the front of her shirt.

"At me?"

Eponine thought there might have been a head shake "no," but she couldn't be sure despite already knowing the answer.

He brought his body down again, his heart beating fiercely against her chest.

She gasped. Her first thought was to push him away, slam her hand into his chest and shove his heartbeat away from hers, but she didn't. She tensed at the feel of her skirt being bunched at her waist and his weight farther parting her legs. She tried to swallow the knot in her throat, lying completely still—no reaction at all. The only response she could find within herself was words.

"Enjolras, do you ever feel—"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"If I'm honest, I don't care to hear it," he said roughly. "Touch me."

"I don't…"

Eponine lifted a trembling hand to his chest and rested it there for one heartbeat, but he grabbed her hand and brought it to his erection instead. She blushed, wondering why she hadn't thought to touch him there first. She loosely gripped his throbbing length, and swallowed hard over the knot growing larger and larger in her throat. He kissed her mouth, and sensing her hesitancy to respond, he kissed her harder.

"I think you're making me nervous…"

"What?" He sounded confused.

"You. You're making me nervous, I think. I think that's why…" She dropped her head into the grass and turned away. "I don't know why."

The whirring sound of insects almost drowned out Enjolras's aggravated sigh as he lifted himself to his elbows and pulled away until he was seated beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. The buzzing insects, the rushing water of the Seine, and Enjolras's heavy breaths were a cacophony of sounds that Eponine drowned in. She gradually sat up, following his position.

"Enjolras, do you—"

"I'll give you thirty seconds," he said.

She closed her mouth. At first, she thought he meant that he would give her thirty seconds to talk, but that idea was ridiculous and she quickly let it go.

Then it hit her, what he meant.

Eponine touched the tree beside her and rose to her feet. She couldn't see him, but didn't hear him stir. She listened for a few seconds longer, and then feeling like a child, she ran.

She ran into the night lined with twisted trees and bushes, and the leaves brushed against her face as she dashed past them. Fighting against the wind, her open shirt flapped into a thorny bush, and she heard the fabric tear as she kept on running. She leapt over shrubs, crunched over fallen twigs and pushed the foliage from her path. Adrenaline was building and surging, and her foot twisted over a log, but she didn't feel it or the exhaustion that should have been taking over.

She looked over her shoulder, seeing only darkness, and weaved through the copse. For these few seconds, she was a child running from a friend who was trying to catch her. It felt so distantly familiar and normal that she almost laughed, a girlish type of laugh that was coy and playful. A laugh that she heard only in her deep childhood memories.

A thick branch whipped into her face, and she caught herself as she stumbled into a tree. She stopped to collect herself. She rubbed the sweat from her forehead, but heard the crunch of Enjolras's footsteps somewhere in close range. Her body grew hotter at the thought of being caught.

Ducking under some wiry branches, she urged herself on, telling herself just to keep away and maybe hide. But a branch snapped too close behind her. She pushed the sweaty strands of hair from her face and weaved into spaces that would accommodate only her small frame, but the sound of smashing tree branches followed in pursuit. She could hear his anger with every snapping branch and enormous step, and her pulse thumped erratically until the only thing her body knew was to get away from him, far away from him.

The sound of his breath raged behind her. The branch she ducked beneath had smashed in half only a second later. Eponine couldn't say when exactly the feeling of play transformed into dread, but she shrieked when the back of her shirt bunch into his fist, and her body was dragged backward, then propelled forth into a tree. Her chest slammed into the bark, losing all breath as she tried to clutch the tree for support. Enjolras spun her around, and his calloused fingers tore off the rest of her shirt and he squeezed the weighted mounds of her breasts as if claiming a savage prize.

"No!" Eponine yelled, clawing at his face.

He snatched her shoulders, and she closed her eyes to brace herself for the impact of being slammed back into the tree. Instead, she felt herself falling to the ground with his weight on top of her. When she opened her eyes, she was buried into the soft grass, her back supported by his arm. She punched the side of his face and tried to squirm away, to keep running, but Enjolras held her down and kissed her open mouth. In response, she bit his lip with a growl before his tongue thrusted past her teeth and massaged into her own warm tongue.

The folds of her skirt being bunched at her hips, she bucked against him to throw off his weight. They both moaned at the friction between their bodies, his hard erection swelling against her stomach as Eponine clutched his forearms and sucked the salty sweat from his neck. Enjolras rushed the fabric of her skirt further up, and jerked down his trousers, the last bit of clothing barring his entrance. He held her down by her writhing hips, and sank into her like a stone shattering through water.

* * *

Sometimes, Eponine's eyes would follow a bird across the sky as it flew towards the sun until she would have to turn away, almost brutally, to shield her eyes from the harsh brightness of daylight—

Eponine winced, and looked down, rubbing the sun from her retinas. By the time she looked up again, the bird was gone. Gray clouds were seen in the distance, and she knew a storm was fast approaching.

"Eponine," a voice called out.

She turned around. Leaning against a street post was a well-dressed Montparnasse who flashed her a lopsided grin. Eponine nibbled her bottom lip that was curving into a smile, and stepped close.

It wasn't strange to run into familiar faces on the street when people traveled in the same social circles. Eponine's father, for instance, regularly roamed the same areas she did. She would find Gavroche lurking about with other street urchins, hiding in nooks and crannies. And the intermittent times when Azelma wasn't in prison, they would give little nods as they passed each other. So she wasn't surprised that Montparnasse called her over with an interest in cutting her into a deal on his latest scheme that required a woman's stealth.

Eponine was mostly humoring Montparnasse as he spoke, catching a few significant details, but she had already determined that she didn't want to get involved with Patron-Minette. The money was tempting, especially as the pang of hunger shot through her stomach, but she knew better than to get into dealings with the gang. She also knew it wasn't smart to insult Montparnasse in any way, so she faked interest enough with a few head nods and some "oh yes."

But she lost focus when she saw a blot of red and a flash of golden hair enter her line of vision. With a stack of papers, Enjolras was heading towards the café. There was only the briefest interruption in his step when he spotted her with Montparnasse, but it was long enough for Eponine to notice that wrinkle in his forehead that formed whenever he was in deep thought.

"So what do you say? You in, Eponine?" Montparnasse rested his hand on his slender waist and put on his most charming smile.

She ran her fingers across the trail of bruises that Enjolras left on her forearm from last night, and watched the young revolutionary walk away. She brought her eyes back to Montparnassse. "I don't think so. But you should ask Fernande; I hear she's looking for work."

As she maneuvered around Montparnasse, he caught her wrist in his bony hand. "Well, Eponine, you know where to find me if you change your mind. It was good seeing you," he said in a singsong voice.

He released her slowly, removing one finger at a time. Eponine rubbed her wrist against her skirt and cocked an eyebrow at him, but he simply tipped his tall hat and walked off. His lithe body faded into the dark crowds before she maneuvered her own way to the café.

By the time she entered the backroom, Enjolras was alone and had already set up at his usual table, sifting through some papers. That look he gave when he saw her with Montparnasse made her uneasy, and she didn't want to leave any lingering false impressions. He could be paranoid at times, and the last thing she needed was Enjolras thinking she was back to prostitution.

Eponine traced her hand along the wooden doorframe and wondered where she should position herself in the room—should she sit at his table or lean by the door? She settled on sitting on top of the table across from his. As she expected, he didn't acknowledge her presence. If he suspected she was still whoring herself, he wouldn't be the one to bring it up until she came to him first, she thought. Then, he would lash out. He was unsettling like that.

She watched Enjolras take a bite into a yellow apple and lick the foamy piece that fell to his bottom lip.

"That wasn't a customer," she said louder than she wanted to. She listened to the crunch of his apple and the slow chew as it disintegrated in his mouth. "I'm not whoring myself or anything. He's just a friend. His name is Montpa—"

"I know who Montparnasse is."

"Oh."

Enjolras looked up and roamed his eyes over her slowly. "Do you think I'm so bored as to monitor who you talk to? I have more pressing matters in my life." His voice was dull, matching the expression on his face.

She pursed her lips. She couldn't tell if he truly believed her or if he was acting irritable because he thought she was lying.

"Are you saying you trust my word?" She squinted.

"I'm saying I trust fear. If you think _I'm_ the cruelest man you've ever been with despite how terribly those other men in your past broke you, then I trust you would do well not to cross me." There was a threat buried deep in that statement. He said it so casually that she wondered if he was even aware of his own severity.

"Right. Those men…" She trailed off.

Enjolras cleared his throat, staring at the floor for a while before returning his gaze to her. He looked uncomfortable as he leaned back in his chair and lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak.

"What?" Eponine asked, unsure what he expected her to say.

He tapped his pen twice against the parchment in front of him, looking down as if thinking away a thought. "Nothing."

Blinking at the parchment, Enjolras continued to write, peppered with small pauses. He took another crisp bite into his apple.

She had subjected herself to the quiet and was staring at his moist lips when he suddenly said, "I always took you for a slow death sort of woman."

"Hmm?" She removed her gaze from his mouth.

"You want someone like Montparnasse to beat you into a bloody mess and slit your throat? Extract your teeth and dump your body in an alley?" He looked up again, chewing slowly. "I thought you would have preferred a slower, more drawn out death."

"What the hell are you on about?" She muttered.

"I suppose only an idiot such as you would associate with Montparnasse."

"The only idiot I see is the one who resorts to petty name calling."

"So you're finally recognizing yourself for the idiot that you are then?"

"Are you not able to talk without being insufferable? Say what you want to say, and get on with it," her voice growing closer to a shout.

"I'm being quite clear, though you're obviously too daft to follow. But I'm not surprised considering only an idiot would actually _want _to work with a scoundrel who would sooner leave that idiot for dead in an alley. Sound like fun to you?"

She gritted her teeth, suppressing the urge to yell as her words came out in tight syllables. "You know, for someone who is _so_ superior with _so_ much important work, you certainly do have an interest in my personal relations."

He scoffed. "I know you like pain, but I didn't honestly think you wanted to be stabbed to death."

"I don't." She bristled.

"Yes, and that's why you involve yourself with Montparnasse who has a charming reputation of leaving girls dead in his wake." Enjolras created a second stack of papers, then narrowed his eyes at her with a grave expression. "Stay away from him."

Eponine glared, watching the movement of his pen as he wrote another note on a piece of parchment. It wasn't as if she felt the need to defend Montparnasse, but she still held some sort of allegiance to her father who was on good terms with the young man. "Montparnasse has never killed a woman, I'll have you know. Men, yes. But never a woman."

"Only maimed then."

"How little you know. Montparnasse is only doing what he has to do. We're all just trying to make our way, you know that. Besides, he would never harm me; he and I are quite familiar with each other."

His pen stopped mid-sentence. "Is that so."

"Well, not in the way we used to be. We don't—I mean, we're not intimate…anymore."

Four solid seconds passed before the stroke of his pen continued, with long, sharp swirls digging harshly into the parchment. "Is there anyone in Paris you haven't slagged around with?"

"Like I said," she continued, the softness of curiosity leveling the bitterness in his tone, "for someone who is so busy, you certainly have an interest in my personal relations."

"And like _I_ said, stay away from him."

"What Patron-Minette does is no different than what you and your friends want to do, when you think about it. Murdering and coercing—"

Enjolras lifted his eyes, his face suddenly chalked in outrage. Eponine flinched at the sight, surprised to see his face flaming red and contorting into something twisted. The chair screeched and he was on his feet. He darted forth, quick in front of her, and snatched the sides of her arms. She yelped, trying to jerk away, but he dug his fingers into her skin like talons.

"_Never_ compare me or any one of my friends to Patron-Minette, do you understand me?" He shook her until her teeth rattled.

"I j—"

"Do you understand me?" He spit out again.

He bore his eyes into her so fiercely that it hurt to look at him. He squeezed harder when she took too long to answer, and she could feel the tremble in his hand shiver through her body until it jolted her ribcage.

"Let go!" She pounded him hard in the chest.

"I swear, if you compare me—"

"Fine!" She shouted, eyes wide.

Enjolras let go, and her shoulders sagged upon release.

"Try it again," he warned. "Try saying it one more time, and I swear—"

"I said fine!"

He took a step back, still glowering. "We're not murderers. _I'm_ not a murderer. There's a difference in what _I _do for the people and what _he _does for himself." He said it as if there were no truer words being spoken.

Eponine observed the rigid lines of his face, but she didn't know how to respond when she wasn't even sure what just happened.

She watched him return to his seat in stiff strides and sit down, his breath escaping his nostrils in hard, long puffs. He eyed her over once more, then picked up his pen and continued writing, and the silence stretched on.

Clutching the sharp edge of the table, she listened to his pen stab into the parchment. She ran her heel against the floor before pushing herself from the table and walking to the window and opening the panes. She needed to move around, shake off the chill that suddenly filled the room and try to make sense of the sudden outrage that struck Enjolras at the comparison to Patron-Minette.

Thunder boomed in the distance, and she felt the roar vibrate in the hollow of her chest. The dark clouds had moved in, and she stared at their puffy forms shadow the sky. A crack of thunder, then soft rain. The sound of playful shrieks from children were heard on the streets, and she watched them dance in the falling water.

As if the open window had helped disperse the ice-hot air, Eponine felt comfortable settling her eyes on Enjolras again, examining him more closely now. She hadn't recognized it earlier, but he looked tired, as if he hadn't slept in a long while. The few days' worth of scruff on his face peppered his ghostly pallor, and the dark rings were puffy beneath his bloodshot eyes. She only recalled him looking this worn once before, when he stayed awake for five days straight, but she didn't think that was his problem now. Something was weighing on his mind. He looked drained, and she would have asked if he was all right if she hadn't already known his response would be silence or a jabbing remark, which might quickly escalate into a shouting match when he got her feeling mean.

Enjolras took another bite into the apple and squinted at the papers in front of him. He muttered something about kings and guillotines, and he pressed his index finger to his paper as his eyes trailed across the page.

She was only staring at him because she was bored of looking out the window and there was no one else in the room to stare at. And she would have left the café if only it hadn't started raining outside. That was what she told herself at least. If anyone asked, there was no other reason. No, not at all.

But the door creaked open, catching her attention, and Courfeyrac stepped through. He shook off the rain from his hair, the little droplets sliding off his dark strands, and he quickly sludged forward as the mud on his boots caught the floor.

"Enjolras."

The Chief looked up.

"Cougourde of Aix has organized a protest outside of _L__e Télégramme_. Against Moreau." Courfeyrac said with a ghost of a smile. "The people are outraged that Halévy's murderer has taken control of the press."

Enjolras leapt from his seat, abandoning his papers. "Is Combeferre there?"

"I'm going to get him now."

"Good. I'll meet you at _L__e Télégramme _then."

Courfeyrac dashed out the door, and Enjolras grabbed his coat. He pulled his arm through the left sleeve, but then stopped.

Eponine followed the line of his gaze to the small pile of artillery he had recently stocked in the corner of the room. He looked pensive, his eyes trailing over the curve of a pistol's handle. The right sleeve of his coat had been forgotten and it slouched behind his back as he took a quick step towards the gun, his hand outreached. He blinked twice, his hand hovering over the handle. But as if the pistol were on fire, he pulled his hand back when he was barely an inch from grabbing it. There was a slight waver in his hand as he reached for the gun once again.

"Everything all right?" Eponine shocked herself by asking.

He flashed a surprised look at her as if he had been caught in a compromising position. She still managed to catch the O of his mouth before it swiftly faded into his default expression—stern and bothered. The right sleeve of his coat was stiff as he slid his arm through the opening and buttoned the center. He grabbed the flintlock and a cartridge box without any hesitation, and stalked towards the door.

"Are _you_ all right?" She continued, going against her better judgment. Her voice sounded too concerned, so she added some gravel to it. "You look awful."

"Don't you have anything better to do but watch me all day? I'm sure Marius has a note for you to deliver. Or better yet, Montparnasse might be waiting for you in the alley for a go-around," Enjolras grumbled with a derisive sneer. "If he and I are the same, you should be quite eager to spread your legs for him again."

She only blamed herself since she had foreseen his reaction, but it still infuriated her.

"You're despicable," she seethed, rising from her seat. "If you're mad at me, fine, but leave Marius out—"

"Believe it or not, Eponine, not everything is about you."

"I never said it wa—"

"Then get out of my way."

He squeezed her shoulder as he moved her out of his path, and she dug her nails into his wrist by habit. As he continued past her, she let him go, her fingers trailing over his warm skin for longer than she needed to.

* * *

"_You're not evil,"_ Eponine had said, and for once, he didn't disagree with her.

No, he wasn't evil. No, of course not. He wasn't evil. Enjolras said it again and again, letting Eponine's words echo through his mind in a steady rhythm that matched his stride, constant and sure.

The protest outside of _Le Télégramme_'s station had ended quite a while ago, and Enjolras had been pacing up and down an alley near the station, pondering over the fragility of life and the power of death. The birth of a revolution was a collective life force, one that thrived by feeding on the bodies of oppressors. No one ever plotted a revolution without considering the savage death toll, the cold number of corpses that would rack up, all for the hope of freedom.

"_You're not evil. You're not evil. You're not evil…"_

Enjolras wasn't afraid to die. He had already condemned himself to death. He had spent many hours imagining the possible ways he would die—maybe his back against the wall and a guard aiming a gun at his head, or maybe a thick blade slicing into his nape and his head impaled on a stake for all of France to witness, his mouth hung open with no words left to say. Maybe it would be a bullet through the back by someone who felt wronged by him or an enemy of the cause. He didn't know, but he had thought about it enough to be numbed not to care, not when social change was the possible reward.

"_You're not evil. You're not evil."_

Enjolras stopped walking, and the words continued to repeat themselves like a mantra. He didn't believe in a heaven or a hell, but he knew what goodness and evil were, and he knew he wasn't evil. Evil was watching orphaned children die of starvation on the streets. Evil was the knotted form of a noose that strangled the voices of the underprivileged. Evil was reserved for the cold-blooded tyrants who beat the masses into bloody monstrosities, pulverized them into a demonic amalgamation of nameless bodies that had no other choice but to eliminate their oppressors. _That_ was evil.

A gray-haired man walked out of the building from across where Enjolras stood. Enjolras leaned into the shadows as he watched the man lock the door. The man shook the door knob a few times, ensuring it was properly locked, and he made his way down the dark streets.

He wasn't evil, Enjolras told himself again. If anything, he was closer to being a victim. He had to carry out the terrible actions that no one else was willing to commit. He had a duty to the people of France. Eyes were on him and his fellow comrades to be the leaders of the Republic, a new France that would grant freedom and rights to the impoverished. This was for freedom. This was for a change. A new dawn. Their desperate liberty. This was just another means to an end. Unfortunately for Moreau, he was a means.

"Jean-Jacques Moreau!" Enjolras called out as soon as the man was alone on the street.

The gray-haired man turned around, his body half-blurred in shadow. And before Enjolras could study the face before death, he pulled the trigger.


End file.
